THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 


CITY  OF  DREADFUL  NIGHT 


AND  OTHER  TALES 


BY 

RUDYARD  KIPLING 


NEW  YORK 

MANHATTAN   PRESS 
474  WEST  bROADWAr 


CONTENTS. 

PACK. 

THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 7 

MY  Own  TRUE  GHOST  STORY 43 

THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF  MORROWS  IE  JUKES....  56 

THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 92 

CITY  OF  THE  DREADFUL  NIGHT  . .  « 


2234734 


PREFACE 


THIS  is  not  exactly  a  book  of  downright 
ghost-stories  as  the  cover  makes  believe.  It 
is  rather  a  collection  of  facts  that  never  quite 
explained  themselves.  All  that  the  collector 
is  certain  of  is,  that  one  man  insisted  upon 
dying  because  he  believed  himself  to  be 
haunted  ;  another  man  either  made  up  a  won- 
derful lie  and  stuck  to  it,  or  visited  a  very 
strange  place  ;  while  the  third  man  was  in- 
dubitably crucified  by  some  person  or  persons 
unknown,  and  gave  an  extraordinary  account 
of  himself. 

The  peculiarity  of  ghost-stories  is  that  they 
are  never  told  first-hand.  I  have  managed, 
with  infinite  trouble,  to  secure  one  exception 
to  this  rule.  It  is  not  a  very  good  specimen, 
but  you  can  credit  it  from  beginning  to  end. 
The  other  three  stories  you  must  take  or. 
trust ;  as  I  did. 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 


May  no  ill  dreams  disturb  my  rest, 
Nor  Powers  of  Darkness  me  molest. 

Evening  Hymn. 

ONE  of  the  few  advantages  that  India  has 
over  England  is  a  great  Knowability.  After 
five  years'  service  a  man  is  directly  or  in- 
directly acquainted  with  the  two  or  three  hun- 
dred Civilians  in  his  Province,  all  the  Messes 
of  ten  or  twelve  Regiments  and  Batteries, 
and  some  fifteen  hundred  other  people  of  the 
non-official  caste.  In  ten  years  his  knowl- 
edge should  be  doubled,  and  at  the  end  of 
twenty  he  knows,  or  knows  something  about, 
every  Englishman  in  the  Empire,  and  may 
travel  anywhere  and  everywhere  without  pay- 
ing hotel-bills. 

Globe-trotters  who  expect  entertainment  as 
a  right  have,  even  within  my  memory,  blunted 
this  open-heartedness,  but  none  the  less  to- 
day, if  you  belong  to  the  Inner  Circle  and 
are  neither  a  Bear  nor  a  Black  Sheep,  all 
houses  are  open  to  you,  and  our  small  world 
is  very,  very  kind  and  helpful. 

7 


8         The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

Rickett  of  Kamartha  stayed  with  Polder  of 
Kumaon  some  fifteen  years  ago.  He  meant 
to  stay  two  nights,  but  was  knocked  down  by 
rheumatic  fever,  and  for  six  weeks  disorgan- 
ized Polder's  establishment,  stopped  Polder's 
work,  and  nearly  died  in  Polder's  bedroom. 
Polder  behaves  as  though  he  had  been  placed 
under  eternal  obligation  by  Rickett,  and 
yearly  sends  the  little  Ricketts  a  box  of  pres- 
ents and  toys.  It  is  the  same  everywhere. 
The  men  who  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  con- 
ceal from  you  their  opinion  that  you  are  an 
incompetent  ass,  and  the  women  who  blacken 
your  character  and  misunderstand  your  wife's 
amusements,  will  work  themselves  to  the 
bone  in  your  behalf  if  you  fall  sick  or  into 
serious  trouble. 

Heatherlegh,  the  Doctor,  kept,  in  addition 
to  his  regular  practise,  a  hospital  on  his  pri- 
vate account — an  arrangement  of  loose  boxes 
for  Incurables,  his  friend  called  it — but  it  was 
really  a  sort  of  fitting-up  shed  for  craft  that 
had  been  damaged  by  stress  of  weather.  The 
weather  in  India  is  often  sultry,  and  since  the 
tale  of  bricks  is  always  a  fixed  quantity,  and 
the  only  liberty  allowed  is  permission  to  work 
overtime  and  get  no  thanks,  men  occasionally 
break  down  and  become  as  mixed  as  the  met- 
aphors in  this  sentence. 

Heatherlegh  is  the  dearest  doctor  that  ever 
was,  and  his  invariable  prescription  to  all  his 
patients  is,  "  lie  low,  go  slow,  and  keep  cool." 
He  says  that  more  men  are  killed  by  over- 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw        9 

work  than  the  importance  of  this  world  justi- 
fices.  He  maintains  that  overwork  slew 
Pansay,  who  died  under  his  hands  about  three 
years  ago.  He  has,  of  course,  the  right  to 
speak  authoritatively,  and  he  laughs  at  my 
theory  that  there  was  a  crack  in  Pansay's 
head  and  a  little  bit  of  the  Dark  World  came 
through  and  pressed  him  to  death.  "  Pansay 
went  off  the  handle,"  says  Heatherlegh, 
"  after  the  stimulus  of  long  leave  at  Home. 
He  may  or  he  may  not  have  behaved  like  a 
blackguard  to  Mrs.  Keith-Wessington.  My 
notion  is  that  the  work  of  the  Katabundi  Set- 
tlement ran  him  off  his  legs,  and  that  he  took 
to  brooding  and  making  much  of  an  ordinary 
P.  &  O.  flirtation.  He  certainly  was  engaged 
to  Miss  Mannering,  and  she  certainly  broke 
off  the  engagement.  Then  he  took  a  feverish 
chill  and  all  that  nonsense  about  ghosts  de- 
veloped. Overwork  started  his  illness,  kept  it 
alight,  and  killed  him,  poor  devil.  Write  him 
off  to  the  System — one  man  to  take  the  work 
of  two  and  a  half  men." 

I  do  not  believe  this.  I  used  to  sit  up 
with  Pansay  sometimes  when  Heatherlegh 
was  called  out  to  patients,  and  I  happened  to 
be  within  claim.  The  man  would  make  me 
most  unhappy  by  describing  in  a  low,  even 
voice,  the  procession  that  was  always  pass- 
ing at  the  bottom  of  his  bed.  He  had  a  sick 
man's  command  of  language.  When  he  re- 
covered I  suggested  that  he  should  write  out 
the  whole  affair  from  beginning  to  end,  know- 


io       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

ing  that  ink  might  assist  him  to  ease  his  mind. 
When  little  boys  have  learned  a  new  bad 
word  they  are  never  happy  till  they  have 
chalked  it  up  on  a  door.  And  this  also  is 
Literature. 

He  was  in  a  high  fever  while  he  was  writ- 
ing, and  the  blood-and-thunder  Magazine 
diction  he  adopted  did  not  calm  him.  Two 
months  afterwards  he  was  reported  fit  for 
duty,  but,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was 
urgently  needed  to  help  an  undermanned 
Commission  stagger  through  a  deficit,  he  pre- 
ferred to  die ;  vowing  at  the  last  that  he  was 
hag-ridden.  I  got  his  manuscript  before  he 
died,  and  this  is  his  version  of  the  affair, 
dated  1885  :— 

My  doctor  tells  me  that  I  need  rest  and 
change  of  air.  It  is  not  improbable  that  I 
shall  get  both  ere  long — rest  that  neither  the 
red-coated  messenger  nor  the  midday  gun 
can  break,  and  change  of  air  far  beyond  that 
which  any  homeward-bound  steamer  can  give 
me.  In  the  meantime  I  am  resolved  to  stay 
where  I  am ;  and,  in  flat  defiance  of  my 
doctor's  orders,  to  take  all  the  world  into  my 
confidence.  You  shall  learn  for  yourselves 
the  precise  nature  of  my  malady ;  and  shall, 
too,  judge  for  yourselves  whether  any  man 
born  of  woman  on  this  weary  earth  was  ever 
so  tormented  as  I. 

Speaking  now  as  a  condemned  criminal 
might  speak  ere  the  drop-bolts  are  drawn,  my 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw   '  n 

story,  wild  and  hideously  improbable  as  it 
may  appear,  demands  at  least  attention. 
That  it  will  ever  receive  credence  I  utterly 
disbelieve.  Two  months  ago  I  should  have 
scouted  as  mad  or  drunk  the  man  who  had 
dared  tell  me  the  like.  Two  months  ago  I 
was  the  happiest  man  in  India.  To-day,  from 
Peshawar  to  the  sea,  there  is  no  one  more 
wretched.  My  doctor  and  I  are  the  only  two 
who  know  this.  His  explanation  is,  that  my 
brain,  digestion,  and  eyesight  are  all  slightly 
affected  ;  giving  rise  to  my  frequent  and  persist- 
ent "  delusions. "  Delusions,  indeed  !  I  call 
him  a  fool ;  but  he  attends  me  still  with  the 
same  unwearied  smile,  the  same  bland  pro- 
fessional manner,  the  same  neatly-trimmed 
red  whiskers,  till  I  begin  to  suspect  that  I  am 
an  ungrateful,  evil-tempered  invalid.  But  you 
shall  judge  for  yourselves. 

Three  years  ago  it  was  my  fortune — my 
great  misfortune — to  sail  from  Gravesend  to 
Bombay,  on  return  from  long  leave,  with  one 
Agnes  Keith-Wessington,  wife  of  an  officer  on 
the  Bombay  side.  It  does  not  in  the  least 
concern  you  to  know  what  manner  of  woman 
she  was.  Be  content  with  the  knowledge 
that,  ere  the  voyage  had  ended,  both  she  and 
I  were  desperately  and  unreasoningly  in  love 
with  one  another.  Heaven  knows  that  I  can 
make  the  admission  now  without  one  particle 
of  vanity.  In  matters  of  this  sort  there  is  al- 
ways one  who  gives  and  another  who  accepts. 
From  the  first  day  of  our  ill-omened  attach- 


12       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

ment,  I  was  conscious  that  Agnes's  passion 
was  a  stronger,  a  more  dominant,  and — if  I 
may  use  the  expression — a  purer  sentiment 
than  mine.  Whether  she  recognized  the  fact 
then,  I  do  not  know.  Afterwards  it  was 
bitterly  plain  to  both  of  us. 

Arrived  at  Bombay  in  the  spring  of  the  year, 
we  went  our  respective  ways,  to  meet  no  more 
for  the  next  three  or  four  months,  when  my 
leave  and  her  love  took  us  both  to  Simla. 
There  we  spent  the  season  together ;  and 
there  my  fire  of  straw  burnt  itself  out  to  a  piti- 
ful end  with  the  closing  year.  I  attempt  no 
excuse.  I  make  no  apology.  Mrs.  Wessing- 
ton  had  given  up  much  for  my  sake,  and  was 
prepared  to  give  up  all.  From  my  own  lips, 
in  August,  1882,  she  learnt  that  I  was  sick 
of  her  presence,  tired  of  her  company,  and 
weary  of  the  sound  of  her  voice.  Ninety-nine 
women  out  of  a  hundred  would  have  wearied 
of  me  as  I  wearied  of  them  ;  seventy-five  of 
that  number  would  have  promptly  avenged 
themselves  by  active  and  obtrusive  flirtation 
with  other  men.  Mrs.  Wessington  was  the 
hundredth.  On  her  neither  my  openly  ex- 
pressed aversion  nor  the  cutting  brutalities 
with  which  I  garnished  our  interviews  had  the 
least  effect. 

"  Jack,  darling ! "  was  her  one  eternal 
cuckoo  cry :  "  I'm  sure  it's  all  a  mistake — a 
hideous  mistake ;  and  we'll  be  good  friends 
again  some  day.  Please  forgive  me,  Jack, 
dear." 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw       13 

I  was  the  offender,  and  I  knew  it  That 
knowledge  transformed  my  pity  into  passive 
endurance,  and,  eventually,  into  blind  hate 
— the  same  instinct,  I  suppose,  which  prompts 
a  man  to  savagely  stamp  on  the  spider  he  has 
but  half  killed.  And  with  this  hate  in  my 
bosom  the  season  of  1882  came  to  an  end. 

Next  year  we  met  again  at  Simla — she  with 
her  monotonous  face  and  timid  attempts  at 
reconciliation,  and  I  with  loathing  of  her  in 
every  fiber  of  my  frame.  Several  times  I 
could  not  avoid  meeting  her  alone ;  and  on 
each  occasion  her  words  were  identically  the 
same.  Still  the  unreasoning  wail  that  it  was 
all  a  "  mistake ;  "  and  still  the  hope  of  event- 
ually "  making  friends."  I  might  have  seen, 
had  I  cared  to  look,  that  that  hope  only  was 
keeping  her  alive.  She  grew  more  wan  and 
thin  month  by  month.  You  will  agree  with 
me,  at  least,  that  such  conduct  would  have 
driven  any  one  to  despair.  It  was  uncalled  for ; 
childish ;  unwomanly.  I  maintain  that  she 
was  much  to  blame.  And  again,  sometimes, 
in  the  black,  fever-stricken  night  watches, 
I  have  begun  to  think  that  I  might  have  been 
a  little  kinder  to  her.  But  that  really  is  a 
"  delusion."  I  could  not  have  continued  pre- 
tending to  love  her  when  I  didn't ;  could  I  ? 
It  would  have  been  unfair  to  us  both. 

Last  year  we  met  again — on  the  same  terms 
as  before.  The  same  weary  appeals  and  the 
same  curt  answers  from  my  lips.  At  least  I 
would  make  her  see  how  wholly  wrong  and 


14       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

hopeless  were  her  attempts  at  resuming  the 
old  relationship.  As  the  season  wore  on,  we 
fell  apart — that  is  to  say,  she  found  it  difficult 
to  meet  me,  for  I  had  other  and  more  absorb- 
ing interests  to  attend  to.  When  I  think  it 
over  quietly  in  my  sick-room,  the  season  of 
1884  seems  a  confused  nightmare  wherein 
light  and  shade  were  fantastically  intermingled 
— my  courtship  of  little  Kitty  Mannering  ;  my 
hopes,  doubts,  and  fears;  our  long  rides  to- 
gether ;  my  trembling  avowal  of  attachment ; 
her  reply;  and  now  and  again  a  vision  of  a 
white  face  flitting  by  in  the  'rickshaw  with  the 
black  and  white  liveries  I  once  watched  for 
so  earnestly ;  the  wave  of  Mrs.  Wessington'a 
gloved  hand ;  and,  when  she  met  me  alone, 
which  was  but  seldom,  the  irksome  monotony 
of  her  appeal.  I  loved  Kitty  Mannering; 
honestly,  heartily  loved  her,  and  with  my  love 
for  her  grew  my  hatred  for  Agnes.  In  August, 
Kitty  and  I  were  engaged.  The  next  day  I 
met  those  accursed  "  magpie  "  jhampanies  at 
the  back  of  Jakko,  and,  moved  by  some  pass- 
ing sentiment  of  pity,  stopped  to  tell  Mrs. 
Wessington  everything.  She  knew  it  already. 

"  So  I  hear  you're  engaged,  Jack  dear." 
Then,  without  a  moment's  pause : — "  I'm  sure 
it's  all  a  mistake — a  hideous  mistake.  We 
shall  be  as  good  friends  some  day,  Jack,  as 
we  ever  were." 

My  answer  might  have  made  even  a  man 
wince.  It  cut  the  dying  woman  before  me  like 
the  blow  of  a  whip. 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw      15 

"Please  forgive  me,  Jack;  I  didn't  mean 
to  make  you  angry ;  but  it's  true,  it's  true !  " 

And  Mrs.  Wessington  broke  down  com- 
pletely. I  turned  away  and  left  her  to  finish 
her  journey  in  peace,  feeling,  but  only  for  a 
moment  or  two,  that  I  had  been  an  unutterably 
mean  hound.  I  looked  back,  and  saw  that 
she  had  turned  her  'rickshaw  with  the  idea,  I 
suppose,  of  overtaking  me. 

The  scene  and  its  surroundings  were  photo- 
graphed on  my  memory.  The  rain-swept  sky 
(we  were  at  the  end  of  the  wet  weather),  the 
sodden,  dingy  pines,  the  muddy  road,  and  the 
black  powder-riven  cliffs  formed  a  gloomy 
background  against  which  the  black  and 
white  liveries  of  \hzjhampanies;  the  yellow- 
paneled  'rickshaw  and  Mrs.  Wessington's 
down-bowed  golden  head  stood  out  clearly. 
She  was  holding  her  handkerchief  in  her  left 
hand  and  was  leaning  back  exhausted  against 
the  'rickshaw  cushions.  I  turned  my  horse 
up  a  by-path  near  the  Sanjowlie  Reservoir  and 
literally  ran  away.  Once  I  fancied  I  heard  a 
faint  call  of  "  Jack  !  "  This  may  have  been 
imagination.  I  never  stopped  to  verify  it. 
Ten  minutes  later  I  came  across  Kitty  on 
horseback  ;  and,  in  the  delight  of  a  long  ride 
with  her,  forgot  all  about  the  interview. 

A  week  later  Mrs.  Wessington  died,  and 
the  inexpressible  burden  of  her  existence  was 
removed  from  my  life.  I  went  Plainsward 
perfectly  happy.  Before  three  months  were 
over  I  had  forgotten  all  about  her,  except  that 


i6       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

at  times  the  discovery  of  some  of  her  old 
letters  reminded  me  unpleasantly  of  our  by- 
gone relationship.  By  January  I  had  disin- 
terred what  was  left  of  our  correspondence 
from  among  my  scattered  belongings  and  had 
burnt  it.  At  the  beginning  of  April  of  this 
year,  1885,  I  was  at  Simla — semi-deserted 
Simla — once  more,  and  was  deep  in  lover's 
talks  and  walks  with  Kitty.  It  was  decided 
that  we  should  be  married  at  the  end  of  June. 
You  will  understand,  therefore,  that,  loving 
Kitty  as  I  did,  I  am  not  saying  too  much 
when  I  pronounce  myself  to  have  been,  at 
that  time,  the  happiest  man  in  India. 

Fourteen  delightful  days  passed  almost 
before  I  noticed  their  flight.  Then,  aroused 
to  the  sense  of  what  was  proper  among  mor- 
tals circumstanced  as  we  were,  I  pointed  out 
to  Kitty  that  an  engagement  ring  was  the  out- 
ward and  visible  sign  of  her  dignity  as  an  en- 
gaged girl ;  and  that  she  must  forthwith  come 
to  Hamilton's  to  be  measured  for  one.  Up 
to  that  moment,  I  give  you  my  word,  we  had 
completely  forgotten  so  trivial  a  matter.  To 
Hamilton's  we  accordingly  went  on  the  i5th 
of  April,  1885.  Remember  that —whatever 
my  doctor  may  say  to  the  contrary — I  was 
then  in  perfect  health,  enjoying  a  well-bal- 
anced mind  and  an  absolutely  tranquil  spirit 
Kitty  and  I  entered  Hamilton's  shop  together, 
and  there,  regardless  of  the  order  of  affairs, 
I  measured  Kitty  for  the  ring  in  the  presence 
of  the  amused  assistant.  The  ring  was  a  sap- 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw       17 

phire  with  two  diamonds.  We  then  rode  out 
down  the  slope  that  leads  to  the  Combermere 
Bridge  and  Peliti's  shop. 

While  my  Waler  was  cautiously  feeling  his 
way  over  the  loose  shale,  and  Kitty  was  laugh- 
ing and  chattering  at  my  side — while  all  Simla 
that  is  to  say  as  much  of  it  as  had  then  come 
from  the  Plains,  was  grouped  round  the  Read- 
ing-room and  Peliti's  veranda, — I  was  aware 
that  some  one,  apparently  at  a  vast  distance, 
was  calling  me  by  my  Christian  name.  It 
struck  me  that  I  had  heard  the  voice  before,  but 
when  and  where  I  could  not  at  once  deter- 
mine. In  the  short  space  it  took  to  cover  the 
road  between  the  path  from  Hamilton's  shop 
and  the  first  plank  of  the  Combermere  Bridge 
I  had  thought  over  half  a  dozen  people  who 
might  have  committed  such  a  solecism,  and 
had  eventually  decided  that  it  must  have  been 
some  singing  in  my  ears.  Immediately  op- 
posite Peliti's  shop  my  eye  was  arrested  by 
the  sight  of  four  jhampanies  in  "  magpie " 
livery,  pulling  a  yellow-paneled,  cheap,  bazar 
'rickshaw.  In  a  moment  my  mind  flew  back 
to  the  previous  season  and  Mrs.  Wessington 
with  a  sense  of  irritation  and  disgust.  Was 
it  not  enough  that  the  woman  was  dead  and 
done  with,  without  her  black  and  white  ser- 
vitors reappearing  to  spoil  the  day's  happi- 
ness ?  Whoever  employed  them  now  I  thought 
I  would  call  upon,  and  ask  as  a  personal  favor 
to  change  her  jhampanies  livery.  I  would 
hire  the  men  myself,  and,  if  necessary,  buy 

2 


1 8       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

their  coats  from  off  their  backs.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  say  here  what  a  flood  of  undesirable 
memories  their  presence  evoked. 

"  Kitty,"  I  cried,  "  there  are  poor  Mrs. 
Wessington's //fow/0«fcy  turned  up  again!  I 
wonder  who  has  them  now?" 

Kitty  had  known  Mrs.  Wessington  slightly 
last  season,  and  had  always  been  interested 
in  the  sickly  woman. 

"What?  Where?"  she  asked.  "I  can't 
see  them  anywhere." 

Even  as  she  spoke,  her  horse,  swerving 
from  a  laden  mule,  threw  himself  directly  in 
front  of  the  advancing  'rickshaw.  I  had 
scarcely  time  to  utter  a  word  of  warning,  when, 
to  my  unutterable  horror,  horse  and  rider 
passed  through  men  and  carriage  as  if  they 
had  been  thin  air. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  cried  Kitty ;  "  what 
made  you  call  out  so  foolishly,  Jack  ?  If  I 
am  engaged  I  don't  want  all  creation  to  know 
about  it.  There  was  lots  of  space  between 
the  mule  and  the  veranda  ;  and,  if  you  think 
I  can't  ride There  !  " 

Whereupon  wilful  Kitty  set  off,  her  dainty 
little  head  in  the  air,  at  a  hand-gallop  in  the 
direction  of  the  Band-stand  ;  fully  expecting, 
as  she  herself  afterwards  told  me,  that  I  should 
follow  her.  What  was  the  matter  ?  Nothing 
indeed.  Either  that  I  was  mad  or  drunk,  or 
that  Simla  was  haunted  with  devils.  I  reined 
in  my  impatient  cob,  and  turned  round.  The 
'rickshaw  had  turned  too,  and  now  stood  im- 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw      19 

mediately  facing  me,  near  the  left  railing  of 
the  Combermere  Bridge. 

"Jack!  Jack,  darling!"  There  was  no 
mistake  about  the  words  this  time  :  they  rang 
through  my  brain  as  if  they  had  been  shouted 
in  my  ear.  "  It's  some  hideous  mistake,  I'm 
sure.  Please  forgive  me,  Jack,  and  let's  be 
friends  again." 

The  'rickshaw-hood  had  fallen  back,  and 
inside,  as  I  hope  and  pray  daily  for  the  death 
I  dread  by  night,  sat  Mrs.  Keith-Wessington, 
handkerchief  in  hand,  and  golden  head  bowed 
on  her  breast. 

How  long  I  stared  motionless  I  do  not 
know.  Finally,  I  was  aroused  by  my  syce 
taking  the  Wafer's  bridle  and  asking  whether 
I  was  ill.  From  the  horrible  to  the  common- 
place is  but  a  step.  I  tumbled  off  my  horse 
and  dashed,  half  fainting,  into  Peliti's  for  a 
glass  of  cherry-brandy.  There  two  or  three 
couples  were  gathered  round  the  coffee-tables 
discussing  the  gossip  of  the  day.  Their 
trivialities  were  more  comforting  to  me  just 
then  than  the  consolations  of  religion  could 
have  been.  I  plunged  into  the  midst  of  the 
conversation  at  once ;  chatted,  laughed,  and 
jested  with  a  face  (when  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  it  in  a  mirror)  as  white  and  drawn  as  that 
of  a  corpse.  Three  or  four  men  noticed  my 
condition ;  and,  evidently  setting  it  down  to 
the  results  of  over-many  pegs,  charitably  en- 
deavored to  draw  me  apart  from  the  rest  of 
the  loungers.  But  I  refused  to  be  led  away. 


20       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

I  wanted  the  company  of  my  kind — as  a  child 
rushes  into  the  midst  of  the  dinner-party  after 
a  fright  in  the  dark.  I  must  have  talked  for 
about  ten  minutes  or  so,  though  it  seemed  an 
eternity  to  me,  when  I  heard  Kitty's  clear 
voice  outside  inquiring  for  me.  In  another 
minute  she  had  entered  the  shop,  prepared 
to  roundly  upbraid  me  for  failing  so  signally 
in  my  duties.  Something  in  my  face  stopped 
her. 

"  Why,  Jack,"  she  cried,  "  what  have  you 
been  doing  ?  What  has  happened  ?  Are  you 
ill  ?  "  Thus  driven  into  a  direct  lie,  I  said 
that  the  sun  had  been  a  little  too  much  for 
me.  It  was  close  upon  five  o'clock  of  a  cloudy 
April  afternoon,  and  the  sun  had  been  hidden 
all  day.  I  saw  my  mistake  as  soon  as  the 
words  were  out  of  my  mouth  ;  attempted  to 
recover  it ;  blundered  hopelessly  and  followed 
Kitty  in  a  regal  rage,  out  of  doors,  amid  the 
smiles  of  my  acquaintances.  I  made  some 
excuse  (I  have  forgotten  what)  on  the  score  of 
my  feeling  faint ;  and  cantered  away  to  my 
hotel,  leaving  Kitty  to  finish  the  ride  by  her- 
self. 

In  my  room  I  sat  down  and  tried  calmly  to 
reason  out  the  matter.  Here  was  I,  Theo- 
bald Jack  Pansay,  a  well-educated  Bengal 
Civilian  in  the  year  of  grace  1885,  presumably 
sane,  certainly  healthy,  driven  in  terror  from 
my  sweetheart's  side  by  the  apparition  of  a 
woman  who  had  been  dead  and  buried  eight 
months  ago.  These  were  facts  that  I  could 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw      21 

not  blink.  Nothing  was  further  from  my 
thought  than  any  memory  of  Mrs.  Wessington 
when  Kitty  and  I  left  Hamilton's  shop. 
Nothing  was  more  utterly  commonplace  than 
the  stretch  of  wall  opposite  Peliti's.  It  was 
broad  daylight.  The  road  was  full  of  people  ; 
and  yet  here,  look  you,  in  defiance  of  every 
law  of  probability,  in  direct  outrage  of  Nature's 
ordinance,  there  had  appeared  to  me  a  face 
from  the  grave. 

Kitty's  Arab  had  gone  through  the  'rick- 
shaw :  so  that  my  first  hope  that  some  woman 
marvelously  like  Mrs.  Wessington  had  hired 
the  carriage  and  the  coolies  with  their  old 
livery  was  lost.  Again  and  again  I  went  round 
this  treadmill  of  thought;  and  again  and 
again  gave  up  baffled  and  in  despair.  The 
voice  was  as  inexplicable  as  the  apparition. 
I  had  originally  some  wild  notion  of  confid- 
ing it  all  to  Kitty  ;  of  begging  her  to  marry 
me  at  once  ;  and  in  her  arms  defying  the 
ghostly  occupant  of  the  'rickshaw.  "After 
all,"  I  argued,  "  the  presence  of  the  'rickshaw 
is  in  itself  enough  to  prove  the  existence  of 
a  spectral  illusion.  One  may  see  ghosts  of 
men  and  women,  but  surely  never  of  coolies 
and  carriages.  The  whole  thing  is  absurd. 
Fancy  the  ghost  of  a  hillman  !  " 

Next  morning  I  sent  a  penitent  note  to 
Kitty,  imploring  her  to  overlook  my  strange 
conduct  of  the  previous  afternoon.  My 
Divinity  was  still  very  wroth,  and  a  personal 
apology  was  necessary.  I  explained,  with  a 


22       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

fluency  born  of  night-long  pondering  over  a 
falsehood,  that  I  had  been  attacked  with  a  sud- 
den palpitation  of  the  heart — the  result  of  in- 
digestion. This  eminently  practical  solution 
had  its  effect;  and  Kitty  and  I  rode  out  that 
afternoon  with  the  shadow  of  my  first  lie 
dividing  us. 

Nothing  would  please  her  save  a  canter 
round  Jakko.  With  my  nerves  still  unstrung 
from  the  previous  night.  I  feebly  protested 
against  the  notion,  suggesting  Observatory 
Hill,  Jutogh,  the  Boileaugunge  road — anything 
rather  than  the  Jakko  round.  Kitty  was 
angry  and  a  little  hurt :  so  I  yielded  from  fear 
of  provoking  further  misunderstanding,  and  we 
set  out  together  towards  Chota  Simla.  We 
walked  a  greater  part  of  the  way,  and  accord- 
ing to  our  custom,  cantered  from  a  mile  or  so 
below  the  convent  to  a  stretch  of  level  road 
by  the  Sanjowlie  Reservoir.  The  wretched 
horses  appeared  to  fly,  and  my  heart  beat 
quicker  and  quicker  as  we  neared  the  crest  of 
the  ascent.  My  mind  had  been  full  of  Mrs. 
Wessington  all  the  afternoon  ;  and  every  inch 
of  the  Jakko  road  bore  witness  to  our  old-time 
walks  and  talks.  The  bowlders  were  full  of 
it ;  the  pines  sang  it  aloud  overhead ;  the 
rain-fed  torrents  giggled  and  chuckled  unseen 
over  the  shameful  story ;  and  the  wind  in  my 
ears  chanted  the  iniquity  aloud. 

As  a  fitting  climax,  in  the  middle  of  the  level 
men  call  the  Ladies'  Mile  the  Horror  was 
awaiting  me.  No  other  'rickshaw  was  in  sight 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw      23 

—only  the  four  black  and  white  jhampanies, 
the  yellow-paneled  carriage,  and  the  golden 
head  of  the  woman  within — all  apparently 
just  as  I  had  left  them  eight  months  and  one 
fortnight  ago !  For  an  instant  I  fancied  that 
Kitty  must  see  what  I  saw — we  were  so  mar- 
velously  sympathetic  in  all  things.  Her  next 
words  undeceived  me — "  Not  a  soul  in  sight ! 
Come  along,  Jack,  and  I'll  race  you  to  the 
Reservoir  buildings  !  "  Her  wiry  little  Arab 
was  off  like  a  bird,  my  Waler  following  close 
behind,  and  in  this  order  we  dashed  under  the 
cliffs.  Half  a  minute  brought  us  within  fifty 
yards  of  the  'rickshaw.  I  pulled  my  Waler  and 
fell  back  a  little.  The  'rickshaw  was  directly 
in  the  middle  of  the  road;  and  once  more  the 
Arab  passed  through  it,  my  horse  following. 
"  Jack  !  Jack  dear  1  Please  forgive  me, "  rang 
with  a  wail  in  my  ears,  and,  after  an  interval: 
— "It's  all  a  mistake,  a  hideous  mistake!  " 

I  spurred  my  horse  like  a  man  possessed. 
When  I  turned  my  head  at  the  Reservoir 
works,  the  black  and  white  liveries  were  still 
waiting — patiently  waiting — under  the  gray 
hillside,  and  the  wind  brought  me  a  mocking 
echo  of  the  words  I  had  just  heard.  Kitty 
bantered  me  a  good  deal  on  my  silence  through- 
out the  remainder  of  the  ride.  I  had  been 
talking  up  till  then  wildly  and  at  random. 
To  save  my  life  I  could  not  speak  afterwards 
naturally,  and  from  Sanjowlie  to  the  Church 
wisely  held  my  tongue. 

I  was  to  dine   with  the   Mannerings    that 


24       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

night,  and  had  barely  time  to  canter  home  to 
dress.  On  the  road  to  Elysium  Hill  I  over- 
heard two  men  talking  together  in  the  dusk. 
— "  It's  a  curious  thing,"  said  one,  "  how 
completely  all  trace  of  it  disappeared.  You 
know  my  wife  was  insanely  fond  of  the  woman 
(never  could  see  anything  in  her  myself),  and 
wanted  me  to  pick  up  her  old  'rickshaw  and 
coolies  if  they  were  to  be  got  for  love  or  money. 
Morbid  sort  of  fancy  I  call  it ;  but  I've  got  to 
do  what  the  Memsahib  tells  me.  Would  you 
believe  that  the  man  she  hired  it  from  tells  me 
that  all  four  of  the  men — they  were  brothers 
— died  of  cholera  on  the  way  to  Hardwar, 
poor  devils;  and  the  'rickshaw  has  been 
broken  up  by  the  man  himself.  'Told  me  he 
never  used  a  dead  Memsahib's  'rickshaw. 
'Spoilt  his  luck.  Queer  notion,  wasn't  it? 
Fancy  poor  little  Mrs.  Wessington  spoiling 
any  one's  luck  except  her  own  !  "  I  laughed 
aloud  at  this  point ;  and  my  laugh  jarred  on 
me  as  I  uttered  it.  So  there  were  ghosts  of 
"rickshaws  after  all,  and  ghostly  employments 
in  the  other  world !  How  much  did  Mrs. 
Wessington  give  her  men  ?  What  were  their 
hours  ?  Where  did  they  go  ? 

And  for  visible  answer  to  my  last  question 
I  saw  the  infernal  Thing  blocking  my  path  in 
the  twilight.  The  dead  travel  fast,  and  by 
short  cuts  unknown  to  ordinary  coolies.  I 
laughed  aloud  a  second  time,  and  checked  my 
laughter  suddenly,  for  I  was  afraid  I  was 
going  mad.  Mad  to  a  certain  extent  I  must 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw      25 

have  been,  for  I  recollect  that  I  reined  in 
my  horse  at  the  head  of  the  'rickshaw,  and 
politely  wished  Mrs.  Wessington  "  Good  even- 
ing." Her  answer  was  one  I  knew  only  too 
well.  I  listened  to  the  end  ;  and  replied  that 
I  had  heard  it  all  before,  but  should  be  de- 
lighted if  she  had  anything  further  to  say. 
Some  malignant  devil  stronger  than  I  must 
have  entered  into  me  that  evening,  for  I  have  a 
dim  recollection  of  talking  the  commonplaces 
of  the  day  for  five  minutes  to  the  Thing  in 
front  of  me. 

"  Mad  as  a  hatter,  poor  devil — or  drunk. 
Max,  try  and  get  him  to  come  home." 

Surely  that  was  not  Mrs.  Wessington's 
voice  1  The  two  men  had  overheard  me  speak- 
ing to  the  empty  air,  and  had  returned  to  look 
after  me.  They  were  very  kind  and  consider- 
ate, and  from  their  words  evidently  gathered 
that  I  was  extremely  drunk.  I  thanked  them 
confusedly  and  cantered  away  to  my  hotel, 
there  changed,  and  arrived  at  the  Mannerings' 
ten  minutes  late.  I  pleaded  the  darkness  of 
the  night  as  an  excuse ;  was  rebuked  by  Kitty 
for  my  unlover-like  tardiness  ;  and  sat  down. 

The  conversation  had  already  became  gen- 
eral ;  and  under  cover  of  it,  I  was  addressing 
some  tender  small  talk  to  my  sweetheart, 
when  I  was  aware  that  at  the  further  end  of 
the  table  a  short  red-whiskered  man  was  de- 
scribing, with  much  broidery,  his  encounter 
with  a  mad  unknown  that  evening. 

A  few  sentences  convinced  me  that  he  was 


26       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

repeating  the  incident  of  half  an  hour  ago. 
In  the  middle  of  the  story  he  looked  round 
for  applause,  as  professional  story-tellers 
do,  caught  my  eye,  and  straightway  collapsed. 
There  was  a  moment's  awkward  silence,  and 
the  red-whiskered  man  muttered  something  to 
the  effect  that  he  had  "  forgotten  the  rest," 
thereby  sacrificing  a  reputation  as  a  good 
story-teller  which  he  had  built  up  for  six  sea- 
sons past.  I  blessed  him  from  the  bottom  of 
my  heart,  and — went  on  with  my  fish. 

In  the  fulness  of  time  that  dinner  came  to 
an  end  ;  and  with  genuine  regret  I  tore  my- 
self away  from  Kitty — as  certain  as  I  was  of 
my  own  existence  that  It  would  be  waiting  for 
me  outside  the  door.  The  red-whiskered  man, 
who  had  been  introduced  to  me  as  Dr.  Heath- 
erlegh  of  Simla,  volunteered  to  bear  me  com- 
pany as  far  as  our  roads  lay  together.  I  ac- 
cepted his  offer  with  gratitude. 

My  instinct  had  not  deceived  me.  It  lay  in 
readiness  in  the  Mall,  and,  in  what  seemed 
devilish  mockery  of  our  ways,  with  a  lighted 
head-lamp.  The  red-whiskered  man  went  to 
the  point  at  once,  in  a  manner  that  showed  he 
had  been  thinking  over  it  all  dinner  time. 

"  I  say,  Pansay,  what  the  deuce  was  the 
matter  with  you  this  evening  on  the  Elysium 
road  ?  "  The  suddenness  of  the  question 
wrenched  an  answer  from  me  before  I  was 
aware. 

"  That  !  "  said  I,  pointing  to  It. 

"  That,   may  be  either   D.  T.  or   Eyes  for 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw      27 

aught  I  know.  Now  you  don't  liquor.  I  saw 
as  much  at  dinner,  so  it  can't  be  D.  T. 
There's  nothing  whatever  where  you're  point- 
ing, though  you're  sweating  and  trembling 
with  fright  like  a  scared  pony.  Therefore,  I 
conclude  that  it's  Eyes.  And  I  ought  to 
understand  all  about  them.  Come  along 
home  with  me.  I'm  on  the  Blessington  lower 
road." 

To  my  intense  delight  the  'rickshaw,  instead 
of  waiting  for  us,  kept  about  twenty  yards 
ahead — and  this,  too,  whether  we  walked, 
trotted,  or  cantered.  In  the  course  of  that 
long  night  ride  I  had  told  my  companion  al- 
most as  much  as  I  have  told  you  here. 

"  Well,  you've  spoilt  one  of  the  best  tales 
I've  ever  laid  tongue  to,"  said  he,  "but  I'll 
forgive  you  for  the  sake  of  what  you've  gone 
through.  Now  come  home  and  do  what  I 
tell  you  ;  and  when  I've  cured  you,  young 
man,  let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you  to  steer  clear 
of  women  and  indigestible  food  till  the  day 
of  your  death." 

The  'rickshaw  kept  steady  in  front ;  and  my 
red-whiskered  friend  seemed  to  derive  great 
pleasure  from  my  account  of  its  exact  where- 
abouts. 

"  Eyes,  Pansay — all  Eyes,  Brain,  and  Stom- 
ach. And  the  greatest  of  these  three  is 
Stomach.  You've  too  much  conceited  Brain, 
too  little  Stomach,  and  thoroughly  unhealthy 
Eyes.  Get  your  Stomach  straight  and  the 
rest  follows.  And  all  that's  French  for  a 


28       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

liver  pill.  I'll  take  sole  medical  charge  of 
you  from  this  hour  !  for  you're  too  interesting 
a  phenomenon  to  be  passed  over." 

By  this  time  we  were  deep  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Blessington  lower  road  and  the  'rickshaw 
came  to  a  dead  stop  under  a  pine-clad,  over- 
hanging shale  cliff.  Instinctively  I  halted 
too,  giving  my  reason,  Heatherlegh  rapped  out 
an  oath. 

"  Now,  if  you  think  I'm  going  to  spend  a 
cold  night  on  the  hillside  for  the  sake  of 
a  Stomach  tum-Brzin-cum-'EyQ  illusion  .  .  . 
Lord,  ha'  mercy  !  What's  that  ?  " 

There  was  a  muffled  report,  a  blinding 
smother  of  dust  just  in  front  of  us,  a  crack, 
the  noise  of  rent  boughs,  and  about  ten  yards 
of  the  cliff-side — pines,  undergrowth,  and  all 
— slid  down  into  the  road  below,  completely 
blocking  it  up.  The  uprooted  trees  swayed 
and  tottered  for  a  moment  like  drunken  giants 
in  the  gloom,  and  then  fell  prone  among  their 
fellows  with  a  thunderous  crash.  Our  two 
horses  stood  motionless  and  sweating  with 
fear.  As  soon  as  the  rattle  of  falling  earth 
and  stone  had  subsided,  my  companion  mut- 
tered : — "  Man  if  we'd  gone  forward  we  should 
have  been  ten  feet  deep  in  our  graves  by 
now.  '  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and 
earth '  .  .  .  Come  home,  Pansay,  and  thank 
God.  I  want  a  peg  badly." 

We  retraced  our  way  over  the  Church  Ridge, 
and  I  arrived  at  Dr.  Heatherlegh's  house 
shortly  after  midnight 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw      29 

His  attempts  towards  my  cure  commenced 
almost  immediately,  and  for  a  week  I  never 
left  his  side.  Many  a  time  in  the  course 
of  that  week  did  I  bless  the  good-fortune 
which  had  thrown  me  in  contact  with  Simla's 
best  and  kindest  doctor.  Day  by  day  my 
spirits  grew  lighter  and  more  equable.  Day 
by  day,  too,  I  became  more  and  more  in- 
clined to  fall  in  with  Heatherlegh's  "  spectral 
illusion  "  theory,  implicating  eyes,  brain,  and 
stomach.  I  wrote  to  Kitty,  telling  her  that  a 
slight  sprain  caused  by  a  fall  from  my  horse 
kept  me  indoors  for  a  few  days  ;  and  that  I 
should  be  recovered  before  she  had  time  to 
regret  my  absence. 

Heatherlegh's  treatment  was  simple  to  a  de- 
gree. It  consisted  of  liver  pills,  cold-water 
baths,  and  strong  exercise,  taken  in  the  dusk 
or  at  early  dawn — for,  as  he  sagely  observed: 
— "  A  man  with  a  sprained  ankle  doesn't 
walk  a  dozen  miles  a  day,  and  your  young 
woman  might  be  wondering  if  she  saw 
you. " 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  after  much  examina- 
tion of  pupil  and  pulse,  and  strict  injunctions 
as  to  diet  and  pedestrianism,  Heatherlegh  dis- 
missed me  as  brusquely  as  he  had  taken  charge 
of  me.  Here  is  his  parting  benediction  : — 
"  Man,  I  certify  to  your  mental  cure,  and  that's 
as  much  as  to  say  I've  cured  most  of  your 
bodily  ailments.  Now,  get  your  traps  out  of 
this  as  soon  as  you  can  ;  and  be  off  to  make 
love  to  Miss  Kitty." 


3O       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

I  was  endeavoring  to  express  my  thanks  for 
his  kindness.  He  cut  me  short. 

"  Don't  think  I  did  this  because  I  like  you. 
I  gather  that  you've  behaved  like  a  blackguard 
all  through.  But,  all  the  same,  you're  a  phe- 
nomenon, and  as  queer  a  phenomenon  as  you 
are  a  blackguard.  No  !  " — checking  me  a 
second  time — "  not  a  rupee,  please.  Go  out 
and  see  if  you  can  find  the  eyes-brain-and- 
stomach  business  again.  I'll  give  you  a  lakh 
for  each  time  you  see  it." 

Half  an  hour  later  I  was  in  the  Mannerings' 
drawing-room  with  Kitty — drunk,  with  the  in- 
toxication of  present  happiness  and  the  fore- 
knowledge that  I  should  never  more  be  trou- 
bled with  Its  hideous  presence.  Strong  in  the 
sense  of  my  new-found  security,  I  proposed  a 
ride  at  once;  and,  by  preference,  a  canter 
round  Jakko. 

Never  had  I  felt  so  well,  so  overladen  with 
vitality  and  mere  animal  spirits,  as  I  did  on 
the  afternoon  of  the  3oth  of  April.  Kitty  was 
delighted  at  the  change  in  my  appearance,  and 
complimented  me  on  it  in  her  delightfully  frank 
and  outspoken  manner.  We  left  the  Manner- 
ings'  house  together,  laughing  and  talking,  and 
cantered  along  the  Chota  Simla  road  as  of 
old. 

I  was  in  haste  to  reach  the  Sanjowlie  Reser- 
voir and  there  make  my  assurance  doubly  sure. 
The  horses  did  their  best,  but  seemed  all  too 
slow  to  my  impatient  mind.  Kitty  was  aston- 
ished at  my  boisterousness.  "  Why,  Jack  !  " 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw      31 

she  cried  at  last,  "you  are  behaving  like  a 
child.  What  are  you  doing?" 

We  were  just  below  the  Convent,  and  from 
sheer  wantonness  I  was  making  my  Waler 
plunge  and  curvet  across  the  road  as  I  tickled 
it  with  the  loop  of  my  riding-whip. 

"Doing?"  I  answered:  "nothing,  dear. 
That's  just  it.  If  you'd  been  doing  nothing 
for  a  week  except  lie  up,  you'd  be  as  riotous 
as  I. 

"  '  Singing  and  murmuring  in  your  feastful  mirth, 

Joying  to  feel  yourself  alive ; 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  Earth, 
Lord  of  the  senses  five.'  " 

My  quotation  was  hardly  out  of  my  lips  be- 
fore we  had  rounded  the  corner  above  the 
Convent ;  and  a  few  yards  further  on  could 
see  across  to  Sanjowlie.  In  the  center  of  the 
level  road  stood  the  black  and  white  liveries, 
the  yellow-paneled  'rickshaw,  and  Mrs.  Keith- 
Wessington.  I  pulled  up,  looked,  rubbed  my 
eyes,  and,  I  believe,  must  have  said  something. 
The  next  thing  I  knew  was  that  I  was  lying 
face  downward  on  the  road,  with  Kitty  kneel- 
ing above  me  in  tears. 

"  Has  It  gone,  child  ? "  I  gasped.  Kitty 
only  wept  more  bitterly. 

"  Has  what  gone,  Jack  dear  ?  What  does  it 
all  mean  ?  There  must  be  a  mistake  some- 
where, Jack.  A  hideous  mistake."  Her  last 
words  brought  me  to  my  feet — mad — raving 
for  the  time  being. 

"  Yes,  there  is  a  mistake  somewhere,"  I  re- 


32       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

peated,  "  a  hideous  mistake.  Come  and  look 
at  It." 

I  have  an  indistinct  idea  that  I  dragged 
Kitty  by  the  wrist  along  the  road  up  to  where 
It  stood,  and  implored  her  for  pity's  sake  to 
speak  to  It ;  to  tell  It  that  we  were  betrothed  ; 
that  neither  Death  nor  Hell  could  break  the 
tie  between  us  ;  and  Kitty  only  knows  how 
much  more  to  the  same  effect.  Now  and 
again  I  appealed  passionately  to  the  Terror 
in  the  'rickshaw  to  bear  witness  to  all  I  had 
said,  and  to  release  me  from  a  torture  that 
was  killing  me.  As  I  talked  I  suppose  I  must 
have  told  Kitty  of  my  old  relations  with  Mrs. 
Wessington,  for  I  saw  her  listen  intently  with 
white  face  and  blazing  eyes. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Pansay,"  she  said,  "  that's 
quite  enough.  Syce  ghora  /do." 

The  syces,  impassive  as  Orientals  always 
are,  had  come  up  with  the  recaptured  horses  ; 
and  as  Kitty  sprang  into  her  saddle  I  caught 
hold  of  the  bridle,  entreating  her  to  hear  me 
out  and  forgive.  My  answer  was  the  cut  of 
her  riding-whip  across  my  face  from  mouth  to 
eye,  and  a  word  or  two  of  farewell  that  even 
now  I  cannot  write  down.  So  I  judged,  and 
judged  rightly,  that  Kitty  knew  all;  and  I 
staggered  back  to  the  side  of  the  'rickshaw. 
My  face  was  cut  and  bleeding,  and  the  blow 
of  the  riding-whip  had  raised  a  livid  blue 
weal  on  it.  I  had  no  self-respect.  Just 
then,  Heatherlegh,  who  must  have  been  fol- 
lowing Kitty  and  me  at  a  distance,  cantered  up, 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw      33 

M  Doctor,"  I  said,  pointing  to  my  face, 
"here's  Miss  Mannering's  signature  to  my 
order  of  dismissal  and  .  .  .  I'll  thank  you  for 
that  lakh  as  soon  as  convenient." 

Heatherlegh's  face,  even  in  my  abject  mis- 
ery, moved  me  to  laughter. 

"  I'll  stake  my  professional  reputation  " — 
he  began. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  I  whispered.  "  I've  lost 
my  life's  happiness  and  you'd  better  take  me 
home." 

"  As  I  spoke  the  'rickshaw  was  gone.  Then 
I  lost  all  knowledge  of  what  was  passing. 
The  crest  of  Jakko  seemed  to  heave  and 
roll  like  the  crest  of  a  cloud  and  fall  in  upon 
me. 

Seven  days  later  (on  the  yth  of  May,  that 
is  to  say)  I  was  aware  that  I  was  lying  in 
Heatherlegh's  room  as  weak  as  a  little  child. 
Heatherlegh  was  watching  me  intently  from 
behind  the  papers  on  his  writing-table.  His 
first  words  were  not  encouraging ;  but  I  was 
too  far  spent  to  be  much  moved  by  them. 

"Here's  Miss  Kitty  has  sent  back  your 
letters.  You  correspond  a  good  deal,  you 
young  people.  Here's  a  packet  that  looks 
like  a  ring,  and  a  cheerful  sort  of  a  note  from 
Mannering  Papa,  which  I've  taken  the  liberty 
of  reading  and  burning.  The  old  gentleman's 
not  pleased  with  you." 

"  And  Kitty  ? "  I  asked  dully. 

"  Rather  more  drawn  than  her  father,  from 
what  she  says.  By  the  same  token  you  must 
3 


34       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

have  been  letting  out  any  number  of  queei 
reminiscences  just  before  I  met  you.  '  Says 
that  a  man  who  would  have  behaved  to  a 
woman  as  you  did  to  Mrs.  Wessington  ought 
to  kill  himself  out  of  sheer  pity  for  his  kind. 
She  is  a  hot-headed  little  virago,  your  mash. 
'Will  have  it  too  that  you  were  suffering  from 
D.  T.  when  that  row  on  the  Jakko  road 
turned  up.  'Says  she'll  die  before  she  ever 
speaks  to  you  again." 

I  groaned  and  turned  over  on  the  other  side. 

"  Now  you've  got  your  choice,  my  friend. 
This  engagement  has  to  be  broken  off ;  and 
the  Mannerings  don't  want  to  be  too  hard  on 
you.  Was  it  broken  through  D.  T.  or 
epileptic  fits  ?  Sorry  I  can't  offer  you  a  better 
exchange  unless  you'd  prefer  hereditary  in- 
sanity. Say  the  word  and  I'll  tell  'em  it's 
fits.  All  Simla  knows  about  that  scene  on 
the  Ladies'  Mile.  Come  I  I'll  give  you  five 
minutes  to  think  over  it." 

During  those  five  minutes  I  believe  that  I 
explored  thoroughly  the  lowest  circles  of  the 
Inferno  which  it  is  permitted  man  to  tread  on 
earth.  And  at  the  same  time  I  myself  was 
watching  myself  faltering  through  the  dark 
labyrinths  of  doubt,  misery,  and  utter  despair. 
I  wondered,  as  Heatherlegh  in  his  chair  might 
have  wondered,  which  dreadful  alternative  I 
should  adopt.  Presently  I  heard  myself  an- 
swering in  a  voice  that  I  hardly  recognized, — • 

"  They're  confoundedly  particular  about 
morality  in  these  parts.  Give  'em  fits,  Heath- 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw      35 

erlegh,  and  ray  love.  Now  let  me  sleep  a  bit 
longer." 

Then  my  two  selves  joined,  and  it  was  only 
I  (half  crazed,  devil-driven  I)  that  tossed  in 
my  bed,  tracing  step  by  step  the  history  of  the 
past  month. 

"  But  I  am  in  Simla,"  I  kept  repeating  to 
myself.  "  I,  Jack  Pansay,  am  in  Simla,  and 
there  are  no  ghosts  here.  It's  unreasonable 
of  that  woman  to  pretend  there  are.  Why 
couldn't  Agnes  have  left  me  alone  ?  I  never 
did  her  any  harm.  It  might  just  as  well  have 
been  me  as  Agnes.  Only  I'd  never  have 
come  back  on  purpose  to  kill  her.  Why  can't 
I  be  left  alone — left  alone  and  happy  ?  " 

It  was  high  noon  when  I  first  awoke :  and 
the  sun  was  low  in  the  sky  before  I  slept — 
slept  as  the  tortured  criminal  sleeps  on  his 
rack,  too  worn  to  feel  further  pain. 

Next  day  I  could  not  leave  my  bed.  Heath- 
erlegh  told  me  in  the  morning  that  he  had 
received  an  answer  from  Mr.  Mannering,  and 
that,  thanks  to  his  (Heatherlegh's)  friendly 
offices,  the  story  of  my  affliction  had  traveled 
through  the  length  and  breadth  of  Simla, 
where  I  was  on  all  sides  much  pitied. 

"And  that's  rather  more  than  you  deserve," 
he  concluded  pleasantly,  "  though  the  Lord 
knows  you've  been  going  through  a  pretty 
severe  mill.  Never  mind  ;  we'll  cure  you  yet, 
you  perverse  phenomenon." 

I  declined  firmly  to  be  cured.  "You've 
been  much  too  good  to  me  already,  old  man," 


36       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

said  I ;  "  but  I  don't  think  I  need  trouble  you 
further." 

In  my  heart  I  knew  that  nothing  Heath- 
erlegh  could  do  would  lighten  the  burden  that 
had  been  laid  upon  me. 

With  that  knowledge  came  also  a  sense  of 
hopeless,  impotent  rebellion  against  the  un- 
reasonableness of  it  all.  There  were  scores 
of  men  no  better  than  I  whose  punishments 
had  at  least  been  reserved  for  another  world  ; 
and  I  felt  that  it  was  bitterly,  cruelly  unfair 
that  I  alone  should  have  been  singled  out  for 
so  hideous  a  fate.  This  mood  would  in  time 
give  place  to  another  where  it  seemed  that  the 
'rickshaw  and  I  were  the  only  realities  in  a 
world  of  shadows ;  that  Kitty  was  a  ghost ; 
that  Mannering,  Heatherlegh,  and  all  the 
other  men  and  women  I  knew  were  all  ghosts  ; 
and  the  great,  gray  hills  themselves  but  vain 
shadows  devised  to  torture  me.  From  mood 
to  mood  I  tossed  backwards  and  forwards  for 
seven  weary  days ;  my  body  growing  daily 
stronger  and  stronger,  until  the  bedroom  look- 
ing-glass told  me  that  I  had  returned  to  every 
day  life,  and  was  as  other  men  once  more. 
Curiously  enough  my  face  showed  no  signs  of 
the  struggle  I  had  gone  through.  It  was  pale 
indeed,  but  as  expressionless  and  common- 
place as  ever.  I  had  expected  some  per- 
manent alteration — visible  evidence  of  the 
disease  that  was  eating  me  away.  I  found 
nothing. 

On  the  1 5th  of  May  I  left  Heatherlegh's 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw      37 

house  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  ;  and 
the  instinct  of  the  bachelor  drove  me  to  the 
Club.  There  I  found  that  every  man  knew 
my  story  as  told  by  Heatherlegh,  and  was,  in 
clumsy  fashion,  abnormally  kind  and  attentive. 
Nevertheless  I  recognized  that  for  the  rest  of 
my  natural  life  I  should  be  among  but  not  of 
my  fellows  ;  and  I  envied  very  bitterly  indeed 
the  laughing  coolies  on  the  Mall  below.  I 
lunched  at  the  Club,  and  at  four  o'clock  wan- 
dered aimlessly  down  the  Mall  in  the  vague 
hope  of  meeting  Kitty.  Close  to  the  Band- 
stand the  black  and  white  liveries  joined  me ; 
and  I  heard  Mrs.  VVessington's  old  appeal  at 
my  side.  I  had  been  expecting  this  ever  since 
I  came  out ;  and  was  only  surprised  at  her 
delay.  The  phantom  'rickshaw  and  I  went 
side  by  side  along  the  Chota  Simla  road  in 
silence.  Close  to  the  bazar,  Kitty  and  a  man 
on  horseback  overtook  and  passed  us.  For 
any  sign  she  gave  I  might  have  been  a  dog  in 
the  road.  She  did  not  even  pay  me  the  com- 
pliment of  quickening  her  pace  ;  though  the 
rainy  afternoon  had  served  for  an  excuse. 

So  Kitty  and  her  companion,  and  I  and  my 
ghostly  Light-o'-Love,  crept  round  Jakko  in 
couples.  The  road  was  streaming  with  water ; 
the  pines  dripped  like  roof-pipes  on  the  rocks 
below,  and  the  air  was  full  of  fine,  driving 
rain.  Two  or  three  times  I  found  myself  say- 
ing to  myself  almost  aloud  :  —  "  I'm  Jack 
Pansay  on  leave  at  Simla — at  Simlq  !  Every- 
day, ordinary  Simla.  I  mustn't  forget  that — • 


38       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

I  mustn't  forget  that."  Then  I  would  try  to 
recollect  some  of  the  gossip  I  had  heard  at 
the  Club  ;  the  prices  of  So-and-So's  horses — 
anything,  in  fact,  that  related  to  the  work-a- 
day  Anglo-Indian  world  I  knew  so  well.  I 
even  repeated  the  multiplication-table  rapidly 
to  myself,  to  make  quite  sure  that  I  was  not 
taking  leave  of  my  senses.  It  gave  me  much 
comfort ;  and  must  have  prevented  my  hear- 
ing Mrs.  Wessington  for  a  time. 

Once  more  I  wearily  climbed  the  Convent 
slope  and  entered  the  level  road.  Here  Kitty 
and  the  man  started  off  at  a  canter,  and  I  was 
left  alone  with  Mrs.  Wessington.  "Agnes," 
said  I,  "  will  you  put  back  your  hood  and  tell 
me  what  it  all  means  ?  "  The  hood  dropped 
noiselessly,  and  I  was  face  to  face  with  my 
dead  and  buried  mistress.  She  was  wearing 
the  dress  in  which  I  had  last  seen  her  alive; 
carried  the  same  tiny  handkerchief  in  her  right 
hand  ;  and  the  same  card-case  in  her  left.  (A 
woman  eight  months  dead  with  a  card-case  ?) 
I  had  to  pin  myself  down  to  the  multiplication- 
table,  and  to  set  both  hands  on  the  stone 
parapet  of  the  road,  to  assure  myself  that  that 
at  least  was  real. 

"  Agnes,"  I  repeated,  "  for  pity's  sake  tell 
me  what  it  all  means."  Mrs.  Wessington 
Jeant  forward  with  that  odd,  quick  turn  of  the 
head  I  used  to  know  so  well,  and  spoke. 

If  my  story  had  not  already  so  madly  over- 
leaped the,  bounds  of  all  human  belief  I  should 
apologize  to  you  now.  As  I  know  that  no 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw      39 

one — no,  not  even  Kitty,  for  whom  it  is 
•written  as  some  sort  of  justification  of  my  con- 
duct— will  believe  me,  I  will  go  on.  Mrs. 
Wessington  spoke  and  I  walked  with  her 
from  the  Sanjowlie  road  to  the  turning  below 
the  Commander-in-chief's  house  as  I  might 
walk  by  the  side  of  any  living  woman's  'rick- 
shaw, deep  in  conversation.  The  second  and 
most  tormenting  of  my  moods  of  sickness  had 
suddenly  laid  hold  upon  me,  and  like  the 
Prince  in  Tennyson's  poem,  "  I  seemed  to 
move  amid  a  world  of  ghosts."  There  had 
been  a  garden-party  at  the  Commander-in- 
chief  s,  and  we  two  joined  the  crowd  of  home- 
ward-bound folk.  As  I  saw  them  then  it 
seemed  that  they  were  the  shadows — impal- 
pable fantastic  shadows — that  divided  for 
Mrs.  Wessington's  'rickshaw  to  pass  through. 
What  we  said  during  the  course  of  that  weird 
interview  I  cannot — indeed,  I  dare  not — telL 
Heatherlegh's  comment  would  have  been  a 
short  laugh  and  a  remark  that  I  had  been 
"  mashing  a  brain-eye-and-stomach  chimera.'* 
It  was  a  ghastly  and  yet  in  some  indefinable 
way  a  marvelously  dear  experience.  Could  it 
be  possible,  I  wondered,  that  I  was  in  this 
life  to  woo  a  second  time  the  woman  I  had 
killed  by  my  own  neglect  and  cruelty  ? 

I  met  Kitty  on  the  homeward  road — a 
shadow  among  shadows. 

If  I  were  to  describe  all  the  incidents  of  the 
next  fortnight  in  their  order,  my  story  would 
never  come  to  an  end ;  and  your  patience 


40       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

would  be  exhausted.  Morning  after  morning 
and  evening  after  evening  the  ghostly  'rick- 
shaw and  I  used  to  wander  through  Simla 
together.  Wherever  I  went  there  the  four 
black  and  white  liveries  followed  me  and  bore 
me  company  to  and  from  my  hotel.  At  the 
Theater  I  found  them  amid  the  crowd  of 
yell  ing  jhampanies;  outside  the  Club  veranda, 
after  a  long  evening  of  whist ;  at  the  Birthday 
Ball,  waiting  patiently  for  my  reappearance ; 
and  in  broad  daylight  when  I  went  calling. 
Save  that  it  cast  no  shadow,  the  'rickshaw 
was  in  every  respect  as  real  to  look  upon  as 
one  of  wood  and  iron.  More  than  once,  in- 
deed, I  have  had  to  check  myself  from  warn- 
ing some  hard-riding  friend  against  cantering 
over  it.  More  than  once  I  have  walked  down 
the  Mall  deep  in  conversation  with  Mrs.  Wes- 
sington  to  the  unspeakable  amazement  of  the 
passers-by. 

Before  I  had  been  out  and  about  a  week  I 
leained  that  the  "fit"  theory  had  been  dis- 
carded in  favor  of  insanity.  However,  I 
made  no  change  in  my  mode  of  life,  I  called, 
rode,  and  dined  out  as  freely  as  ever.  I  had 
a  passion  for  the  society  of  my  kind  which  I 
had  never  felt  before ;  I  hungered  to  be 
among  the  realities  of  life ;  and  at  the  same 
time  I  felt  vaguely  unhappy  when  I  had  been 
separated  too  long  from  my  ghostly  compan- 
ion. It  would  be  almost  impossible  to  de- 
scribe my  vary  ing  moods  from  the  isth  of  May 
up  to  to-day. 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw      41 

The  presence  of  the  'rickshaw  rilled  me  by 
turns  with  horror,  blind  fear,  a  dim  sort  of 
pleasure,  and  utter  despair.  I  dared  not 
leave  Simla ;  and  I  knew  that  my  stay  there 
was  killing  me.  I  knew,  moreover,  that  it  was 
my  destiny  to  die  slowly  and  a  little  every  day. 
My  only  anxiety  was  to  get  the  penance  over 
as  quietly  as  might  be.  Alternately  I  hun- 
gered for  a  sight  of  Kitty  and  watched  her  out- 
rageous flirtations  with  my  successor — to 
speak  more  accurately,  my  successors — with 
amused  interest.  She  was  as  much  out  of  my 
life  as  I  was  out  of  hers.  By  day  I  wandered 
with  Mrs.  Wessington  almost  content.  By 
night  I  implored  Heaven  to  let  me  return  to 
the  world  as  I  used  to  know  it.  Above  all 
these  varying  moods  lay  the  sensation  of  dull, 
numbing  wonder  that  the  Seen  and  the  Un- 
seen should  mingle  so  strangely  on  this  earth 
to  hound  one  poor  soul  to  its  grave. 


August  27. — Heatherlegh  has  been  indefat- 
igable in  his  attendance  on  me  ;  and  only 
yesterday  told  me  that  I  ought  to  send  in  an 
application  for  sick  leave.  An  application  to 
escape  the  company  of  a  phantom  !  A  request 
that  the  Government  would  graciously  permit 
me  to  get  rid  of  five  ghosts  and  an  airy  'rick- 
shaw by  going  to  England  !  Heatherlegh's 
proposition  moved  me  almost  to  hysterical 
laughter.  I  told  him  that  I  should  await  the 
end  quietly  at  Simla ;  and  I  am  sure  that  the 


42       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

end  is  not  far  off.  Believe  me  that  I  dread 
its  advent  more  than  any  word  can  say  ;  and 
I  torture  myself  nightly  with  a  thousand  specu- 
lations as  to  the  manner  of  my  death. 

Shall  I  die  in  my  bed  decently  and  as  an 
English  gentleman  should  die  ;  or,  in  one  last 
walk  on  the  Mall,  will  my  soul  be  wrenched 
from  me  to  take  its  place  forever  and  ever  by 
the  side  of  that  ghastly  phantasm  ?  Shall  I  re- 
turn to  my  old  lost  allegiance  in  the  next 
world,  or  shall  I  meet  Agnes,  loathing  her 
and  bound  to  her  side  through  all  eternity  ? 
Shall  we  two  hover  over  the  scene  of  our  lives 
till  the  end  of  Time  ?  As  the  dr.y  of  my 
death  draws  nearer,  the  intense  horror  that  all 
living  flesh  feels  towards  escaped  spirits  from 
beyond  the  grave  grows  more  and  more 
powerful.  It  is  an  awful  thing  to  go  down 
quick  among  the  dead  with  scarcely  one-half 
of  your  life  completed.  It  is  a  thousand  times 
more  awful  to  wait  as  I  do  in  your  midst,  for 
I  know  not  what  unimaginable  terror.  Pity 
me,  at  least  on  the  score  of  my  "  delusion," 
for  I  know  you  will  never  believe  what  I  have 
written  here.  Yet  as  surely  as  ever  a  man 
was  done  to  death  by  the  Powers  of  Darkness 
I  am  that  man. 

In  justice,  too,  pity  her.  For  as  surely  as 
ever  woman  was  killed  by  man,  I  killed  Mrs. 
Wessington.  And  the  last  portion  of  my  pun- 
ishment is  even  now  upon  me. 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY. 


As  I  came  through  the  Desert  thus  it  was—- 
As I  came  through  the  Desert. 

The  City  of  Dreadful  Night, 

SOMEWHERE  in  the  Other  World,  where  there 
are  books  and  pictures  and  plays  and  shop- 
windows  to  look  at,  and  thousands  of  men 
who  spend  their  lives  in  building  up  all  four, 
lives  a  gentleman  who  writes  real  stories  about 
the  real  insides  of  people  ;  and  his  name  is  Mr, 
Walter  Besant.  But  he  will  insist  upon  treat- 
ing his  ghosts — he  has  published  half  a  work- 
shopful  of  them — with  levity.  He  makes  his 
ghost-seers  talk  familiarly,  and,  in  some  cases, 
flirt  outrageously,  with  the  phantoms.  You  may 
treat  anything,  from  a  Viceroy  to  a  Vernacular 
Paper,  with  levity;  but  you  must  behave  rev- 
erently towards  a  ghost,  and  particularly  an 
Indian  one. 

There  are,  in  this  land,  ghosts  who  take  the 
form  of  fat,  cold,  pobby  corpses,  and  hide  in 
trees  near  the  roadside  till  a  traveler  passes. 
Then  they  drop  upon  his  neck  and  remain. 
There  are  also  terrible  ghosts  of  women  who 
have  died  in  child-bed.  These  wander  along 
the  pathways  at  dusk,  or  hide  in  the  crops 
near  a  village,  and  call  seductively.  But  to 
43 


44       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

answer  their  call  is  death  in  this  world  and  the 
next.  Their  feet  are  turned  backwards  that 
all  sober  men  may  recognize  them.  There  are 
ghosts  of  little  children  who  have  been  thrown 
into  wells.  These  haunt  well-curbs  and  the 
fringes  of  jungles,  and  wail  under  the  stars,  or 
catch  women  by  the  wrist  and  beg  to  be  taken 
up  and  carried.  These  and  the  corpse-ghosts, 
however,  are  only  vernacular  articles  and  do 
not  attack  Sahibs.  No  native  ghost  has  yet 
been  authentically  reported  to  have  frightened 
an  Englishman  ;  but  many  English  ghosts  have 
scared  the  life  out  of  both  white  and  black. 

Nearly  every  other  Station  owns  a  ghost. 
There  are  said  to  be  two  at  Simla,  not  count- 
ing the  woman  who  blows  the  bellows  at  Syree 
dak-bungalow  on  the  Old  Road ;  Mussoorie 
has  a  house  haunted  of  a  very  lively  Thing;  a 
White  Lady  is  supposed  to  do  night-watchman 
round  a  house  in  Lahore;  Dalhousie  says  that 
one  of  her  houses  "  repeats  "  on  autumn  even- 
ings all  the  incidents  of  a  horrible  horse-and- 
precipice  accident ;  Murree  has  a  merry  ghost, 
and,  now  that  she  has  been  swept  by  cholera, 
will  have  room  for  a  sorrowful  one ;  there  are 
Officers  Quarters,  in  Mian  Mir  whose  doors 
open  without  reason,  and  whose  furniture  is 
guaranteed  to  creak,  not  with  the  heat  of  June 
but  with  the  weight  of  Invisibles  who  come 
to  lounge  in  the  chairs  ;  Peshawar  possesses 
houses  that  none  will  willingly  rent ;  and  there 
is  something — not  fever — wrong  with  a  big 
bungalow  in  Allahabad.  The  older  Provinces 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story     45 

simply  bristle  with  haunted  houses,  and  march 
phantom  armies  along  their  main  thorough- 
fares. 

Some  of  the  dik-bungalows  on  the  Grand 
Trunk  Road  have  handy  little  cemeteries  in 
their  compound — witnesses  to  the  "  changes 
and  chances  of  this  mortal  life  "  in  the  days 
when  men  drove  from  Calcutta  to  the  North- 
west. These  bungalows  are  objectionable 
places  to  put  up  in.  They  are  generally  very 
old,  always  dirty,  while  the  khansamah  is  as 
ancient  as  the  bungalow.  He  either  chatters 
senilely,  or  falls  into  the  long  trances  of  age. 
In  both  moods  he  is  useless.  If  you  get  angry 
with  him,  he  refers  to  some  Sahib  dead  and 
buried  these  thirty  years,  and  says  that  when 
he  was  in  that  Sahib's  service  not  a  khansamah 
in  the  Province  could  touch  him.  Then  he  jab- 
bers and  mows  and  trembles  and  fidgets 
among  the  dishes  and  you  repent  of  your  irri- 
tation. 

In  these  dik-bungalows,  ghosts  are  most 
likely  to  be  found,  and  when  found,  they 
should  be  made  a  note  of.  Not  long  ago  it 
was  my  business  to  live  in  dak-bungalows. 
I  never  inhabited  the  same  house  for  three 
nights  running,  and  grew  to  be  learned  in  the 
breed.  I  lived  in  Government-built  ones  with 
red  brick  walls  and  rail  ceilings,  an  inventory 
of  the  furniture  posted  in  every  room,  and 
an  excited  snake  at  the  threshold  to  give  wel- 
come. I  lived  in  "converted"  ones — old 
houses  officiating  as  dak-bungalows — where 


46       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

nothing  was  in  its  proper  place  and  there  wasn't 
even  a  fowl  for  dinner.  I  lived  in  second- 
hand palaces  where  the  wind  blew  through 
open-work  marble  tracery  just  as  uncomfort- 
ably as  through  a  broken  pane.  I  lived  in  dak- 
bungalows  where  the  last  entry  in  the  visitors' 
book  was  fifteen  months  old,  and  where  they 
slashed  off  the  curry-kid's  head  with  a  sword. 
It  was  my  good  luck  to  meet  all  sorts  of  men, 
from  sober  travelingmissionaries  and  deserters 
flying  from  British  Regiments,  to  drunken 
loafers  who  threw  whisky  bottles  at  all  who 
passed;  and  my  still  greater  good  fortune  just 
to  escape  a  maternity  case.  Seeing  that  a  fair 
proportion  of  the  tragedy  of  our  lives  out  here 
acted  itself  in  dak-bungalows,  I  wondered  that 
I  had  met  no  ghosts.  A  ghost  that  would  vol- 
untarily hang  about  a  dak-bungalow  would  be 
mad  of  course;  but  so  many  men  have  died 
mad  in  dik-bungalows  that  there  must  be  a 
fair  percentage  of  lunatic  ghosts. 

In  due  time  I  found  my  ghost,  or  ghosts 
rather,  for  there  were  two  of  them.  Up  till 
that  hour  I  had  sympathized  with  Mr.  Besant's 
method  of  handling  them,  as  shown  in  "  The 
Strange  Case  of  Mr.  Lucraft  and  other  Stories." 
I  am  now  in  the  opposition. 

We  will  call  the  bungalow  Katmal  dak- 
bungalow.  But  that  was  the  smallest  part  of 
the  horror.  A  man  with  a  sensitive  hide  has 
no  right  to  sleep  in  dik-bungalows.  He 
should  marry.  Katmal  dak-bungalow  was 
old  and  rotten  and  unrepaired.  The  floor 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story    47 

was  of  worn  brick,  the  walls  were  filthy,  and 
the  windows  were  nearly  black  with  grime. 
It  stood  on  a  by-path  largely  used  by  native 
Sub-Deputy  Assistants  of  all  kinds,  from 
Finance  to  Forests  ;  but  real  Sahibs  were  rare, 
The  khansamah,  who  was  nearly  bent  double 
with  old  age,  said  so. 

When  I  arrived,  there  was  a  fitful,  undecided 
rain  on  the  face  of  the  land,  accompanied  by 
a  restless  wind,  and  every  gust  made  a  noise 
like  the  rattling  of  dry  bones  in  the  stiff  toddy- 
palms  outside.  The  khansamah  completely 
lost  his  head  on  my  arrival.  He  had  served 
a  Sahib  once.  Did  I  know  that  Sahib  ?  He 
gave  me  the  name  of  a  well-known  man  who 
has  been  buried  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
century,  and  showed  me  an  ancient  daguerreo- 
type of  that  man  in  his  prehistoric  youth.  I 
had  seen  a  steel  engraving  of  him  at  the  head 
of  a  double  volume  of  Memoirs  a  month  be- 
fore, and  I  felt  ancient  beyond  telling. 

The  day  shut  in  and  the  khansamah  went 
to  get  me  food.  He  did  not  go  through  the 
pretense  of  calling  it  "  khana  " — man's  vic- 
tuals. He  said  " ratub"  and  that  means, 
among  other  things,  "  grub  " — dog's  rations. 
There  was  no  insult  in  his  choice  of  the  term. 
He  had  forgotten  the  other  word,  I  suppose. 

While  he  was  cutting  up  the  dead  bodies  of 
animals,  I  settled  myself  down,  after  exploring 
the  dak-bungalow.  There  were  three  rooms, 
beside  my  own,  which  was  a  corner  kennel, 
each  giving  into  the  other  through  dingy  white 


48       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

doors  fastened  with  long  iron  bars.  The 
bungalow  was  a  very  solid  one,  but  the  parti- 
tion-walls of  the  rooms  were  almost  jerry- 
built  in  their  flimsiness.  Every  step  or  bang 
of  a  trunk  echoed  from  my  room  down  the 
other  three,  and  every  footfall  came  back 
tremulously  from  the  far  walls.  For  this 
reason  I  shut  the  door.  There  were  no  lamps 
— only  candles  in  long  glass  shades.  An  oil 
wick  was  set  in  the  bath-room. 

For  bleak,  unadulterated  misery  that  dak- 
bungalow  was  the  worst  of  the  many  that  I  had 
ever  set  foot  in.  There  was  no  fireplace,  and 
the  windows  would  not  open  ;  so  a  brazier  of 
charcoal  would  have  been  useless.  The  rain 
and  the  wind  splashed  and  gurgled  and 
moaned  round  the  house,  and  the  toddy-palms 
rattled  and  roared.  Half  a  dozen  jackals 
went  through  the  compound  singing,  and  a 
hyena  stood  afar  off  and  mocked  them.  A 
hyena  would  convince  a  Sadducee  of  the 
Resurrection  of  the  Dead — the  worst  sort  of 
Dead.  Then  came  the  ratub — a  curious  meal, 
half  native  and  half  English  in  composition — 
with  the  old  khansamah  babbling  behind  my 
chair  about  dead  and  gone  English  people, 
and  the  wind-blown  candles  playing  shadow- 
bo-peep  with  the  bed  and  the  mosquito-cur- 
tains. 

It  was  just  the  sort  of  dinner  and  evening 
to  make  a  man  think  of  every  single  one  of 
his  past  sins,  and  of  all  the  others  that  he  in- 
tended to  commit  if  he  lived. 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story     49 

Sleep,  for  several  hundred  reasons,  was  not 
easy.  The  lamp  in  the  bath-room  threw  the 
most  absurd  shadows  into  the  room,  and  the 
wind  was  beginning  to  talk  nonsense. 

Just  when  the  reasons  were  drowsy  with 
bloodsucking  I  heard  the  regular — "Let-us- 
take-and-heave-him-over "  grunt  of  doolie- 
bearers  in  the  compound.  First  one  doolie 
came  in,  then  a  second,  and  then  a  third.  I 
heard  the  doolies  dumped  on  the  ground,  and 
the  shutter  in  front  of  my  door  shook.  "  That's 
some  one  trying  to  come  in,"  I  said.  But  no 
one  spoke,  and  I  persuaded  myself  that  it  was 
the  gusty  wind.  The  shutter  of  the  room 
next  to  mine  was  attacked,  flung  back,  and 
the  inner  door  opened.  "That's  some  Sub- 
Deputy  Assistant,"  I  said,  "and  he  has 
brought  his  friends  with  him.  Now  they'll 
talk  and  spit  and  smoke  for  an  hour." 

But  there  were  no  voices  and  no  footsteps. 
No  one  was  putting  his  luggage  into  the  next 
room.  The  door  shut,  and  I  thanked  Provi- 
dence that  I  was  to  be  left  in  peace.  But  I 
was  curious  to  know  where  the  doolies  had 
gone.  I  got  out  of  bed  and  looked  into  the 
darkness.  There  was  never  a  sign  of  a  doolie. 
Just  as  I  was  getting  into  bed  again,  I  heard, 
in  the  next  room,  the  sound  that  no  man  in  his 
senses  can  possibly  mistake — the  whir  of  a 
billiard  ball  down  the  length  of  the  slates 
when  the  striker  is  stringing  for  break.  No 
other  sound  is  like  it.  A  minute  afterwards 
there  was  another  whir,  and  I  got  into  bed.  I 
4 


50       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

was  not  frightened — indeed  I  was  not.  I  was 
very  curious  to  know  what  had  become  of  the 
doolies.  I  jumped  into  bed  for  that  reason. 

Next  minute  I  heard  the  double  click  of  a 
cannon  and  my  hair  sat  up.  It  is  a  mistake 
to  say  that  hair  stands  up.  The  skin  of  the 
head  tightens  and  you  can  feel  a  faint,  prickly 
bristling  all  over  the  scalp.  That  is  the  hair 
sitting  up. 

There  was  a  whir  and  a  click,  and  both 
sounds  could  only  have  been  made  by  one 
thing — a  billiard  ball.  I  argued  the  matter 
out  at  great  length  with  myself ;  and  the  more 
I  argued  the  less  probable  it  seemed  that  one 
bed,  one  table,  and  two  chairs — all  the  furni- 
ture of  the  room  next  to  mine — could  so  ex- 
actly duplicate  the  sounds  of  a  game  of  bil- 
liards. After  another  cannon,  a  three-cushion 
one  to  judge  by  the  whir,  I  argued  no  more. 
I  had  found  my  ghost  and  would  have  given 
worlds  to  have  escaped  from  that  dak-bun- 
galow. I  listened,  and  with  each  listen  the 
game  grew  clearer.  There  was  whir  on  whir 
and  click  on  click.  Sometimes  there  was  a 
double  click  and  a  whir  and  another  click. 
Beyond  any  sort  of  doubt,  people  were  play- 
ing billiards  in  the  next  room.  And  the  next 
room  was  not  big  enough  to  hold  a  billiard 
table ! 

Between  the  pauses  of  the  wind  I  heard  the 
game  go  forward — stroke  after  stroke.  I  tried 
to  believe  that  I  could  not  hear  voices ;  but 
that  attempt  was  a  failure. 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story     51 

Do  you  know  what  fear  is  ?  Not  ordinary 
fear  of  insult,  injury  or  death,  but  abject, 
quivering  dread  of  something-  that  you  can- 
not see — fear  that  dries  the  inside  of  the  mouth 
and  half  of  the  throat — fear  that  makes  you 
sweat  on  the  palms  of  the  hands,  and  gulp  in 
order  to  keep  the  uvula  at  work  ?  This  is  a 
fine  Fear — a  great  cowardice,  and  must  be  felt 
to  be  appreciated.  The  very  improbability  of 
billiards  in  a  da"k-bungalow  proved  the  reality 
of  the  thing.  No  man — drunk  or  sober — could 
imagine  a  game  at  billiards,  or  invent  the  spit- 
ting crack  of  a  "  screw-cannon." 

A  severe  course  of  dak-bungalows  has  this 
disadvantage — it  breeds  infinite  credulity.  If 
a  man  said  to  a  confirmed  dak-bungalow- 
haunter  : — "  There  is  a  corpse  in  the  next  room, 
and  there's  a  mad  girl  in  the  next  but  one, 
and  the  woman  and  man  on  that  camel  have 
just  eloped  from  a  place  sixty  miles  away," 
the  hearer  would  not  disbelieve  because  he 
would  know  that  nothing  is  too  wild,  grotesque, 
or  horrible  to  happen  in  a  dak-bungalow. 

This  credulity,  unfortunately,  extends  to 
ghosts.  A  rational  person  fresh  from  his  own 
house  would  have  turned  on  his  side  and  slept. 
I  did  not.  So  surely  as  I  was  given  up  as  a 
bad  carcass  by  the  scores  of  things  in  the  bed 
because  the  bulk  of  my  blood  was  in  my  heart, 
so  surely  did  I  hear  every  stroke  of  a  long 
game  at  billiards  played  in  the  echoing  room 
behind  the  iron-barred  door.  My  dominant 
fear  was  that  the  players  might  want  a  marker. 


52       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

It  was  an  absurd  fear ;  because  creatures 
who  could  play  in  the  dark  would  be  above 
such  superfluities.  I  only  know  that  that 
was  my  terror ;  and  it  was  real. 

After  a  long  long  while,  the  game  stopped, 
and  the  door  banged.  I  slept  because  I  was 
dead  tired.  Otherwise  I  should  have  preferred 
to  have  kept  awake.  Not  for  everything  in 
Asia  would  I  have  dropped  the  door-bar  and 
peered  into  the  dark  of  the  next  room. 

When  the  morning  came,  I  considered  that 
I  had  done  well  and  wisely  and  inquired  for 
the  means  of  departure. 

"  By  the  way,  khansamah"  I  said,  "  what 
were  those  three  doolies  doing  in  my  com- 
pound in  the  night  ?" 

"  There  were  no  doolies,"  said  the  khansa- 
tnah. 

I  went  into  the  next  room  and  the  daylight 
streamed  through  the  open  door.  I  was  im- 
mensely brave.  I  would,  at  that  hour,  have 
played  Black  Pool  with  the  owner  of  the  big 
Black  Pool  down  below. 

"  Has  this  place  always  been  a  dak-bunga- 
low ? "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  said  the  khansamah.  "  Ten  or  twenty 
years  ago,  I  have  forgotten  how  long,  it  was  a 
billiard-room." 

"A  how  much?" 

"  A  billiard-room  for  the  Sahibs  who  built 
the  Railway.  I  was  khansamah  then  in  the 
big  house  where  all  the  Railway-Sahibs  lived, 
and  I  used  to  come  across  with  bra.ndy-sfirat>. 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story     53 

These  three  rooms  were  all  one,  and  they  held 
a  big  table  on  which  the  Sahibs  played  every 
evening.  But  the  Sahibs  are  all  dead  now, 
and  the  Railway  runs,  you  say,  nearly  to 
Kabul." 

"  Do  you  remember  anything  about  the 
Sahibs  ? " 

"  It  is  long  ago,  but  I  remember  that  one 
Sahib,  a  fat  man  and  always  angry,  was  play- 
ing here  one  night,  and  he  said  to  me : — '  Man- 
gal  Khan,  brandy  pant  do?  and  I  filled  the 
glass,  and  he  bent  over  the  table  to  strike, 
and  his  head  fell  lower  and  lower  till  it  hit  the 
table,  and  his  spectacles  came  off,  and  when 
we — the  Sahibs  and  I  myself — ran  to  lift  him 
he  was  dead.  I  helped  to  carry  him  out.  Aha, 
he  was  a  strong  Sahib  !  But  he  is  dead  and  I, 
old  Mangal  Khan,  am  still  living,  by  your 
favor." 

That  was  more  than  enough!  I  had  my 
ghost — a  first-hand,  authenticated  article.  I 
would  write  to  the  Society  for  Psychical  Re- 
search— I  would  paralyze  the  Empire  with  the 
news !  But  I  would,  first  of  all,  put  eighty 
miles  of  assessed  crop-land  between  myself 
and  that  d£k-bungalow  before  nightfall.  The 
Society  might  send  their  regular  agent  to  in- 
vestigate later  on. 

I  went  into  my  own  room  and  prepared  to 
pack  after  noting  down  the  facts  of  the  case. 
As  I  smoked  I  heard  the  game  begin  again, — 
with  a  miss  in  balk  this  time,  for  the  whir 
was  a  short  one. 


54       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

The  door  was  open  and  I  could  see  into  the 
room.  Click — click  !  That  was  a  cannon.  I 
entered  the  room  without  fear,  for  there  was 
sunlight  within  and  a  fresh  breeze  without. 
The  unseen  game  was  going  on  at  a  tremen- 
dous rate.  And  well  it  might,  when  a  restless 
little  rat  was  running  to  and  fro  inside  the  dingy 
ceiling-cloth,  and  a  piece  of  loose  window- 
sash  was  making  fifty  breaks  off  the  window- 
bolt  as  it  shook  in  the  breeze  ! 

Impossible  to  mistake  the  sound  of  billiard 
balls  !  Impossible  to  mistake  the  whir  of  a 
ball  over  the  slate  !  But  I  was  to  be  excused. 
Even  when  I  shut  my  enlightened  eyes  the 
sound  was  marvelously  like  that  of  a  fast 
game. 

Entered  angrily  the  faithful  partner  of  my 
sorrows,  Kadir  Baksh. 

"This  bungalow  is  very  bad  and  low-caste  ! 
No  wonder  the  Presence  was  disturbed  and 
is  speckled.  Three  sets  of  doolie-bearers 
came  to  the  bungalow  late  last  night  when  I 
was  sleeping  outside,  and  said  that  it  was 
their  custom  to  rest  in  the  rooms  set  apart  for 
the  English  people !  What  honor  has  the 
khansamah  ?  They  tried  to  enter,  but  I  told 
them  to  go.  No  wonder,  if  these  Oorias  have 
been  here,  that  the  Presence  is  sorely  spotted. 
It  is  shame,  and  the  work  of  a  dirty  man." 

Kadir  Baksh  did  not  say  that  he  had  taken 
from  each  gang  two  annas  for  rent  in  advance, 
and  then,  beyond  my  earshot,  had  beaten 
them  with  the  big  green  umbrella  whose  use 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story     55 

I  could  never  before  divine.  But  Kadir  Baksh 
has  no  notions  of  morality. 

There  was  an  interview  with  the  khansamah, 
but  as  he  promptly  lost  his  head,  wrath  gave 
place  to  pity,  and  pity  led  to  a  long  conversa- 
tion, in  the  course  of  which  he  put  the  fat 
Engineer-Sahib's  tragic  death  in  three  separ- 
ate stations — two  of  them  fifty  miles  away. 
The  third  shift  was  to  Calcutta,  and  there 
the  Sahib  died  while  driving  a  dog-cart. 

If  I  had  encouraged  him  the  khansamah 
would  have  wandered  all  through  Bengal  with 
his  corpse. 

I  did  not  go  away  as  soon  as  I  intended. 
I  stayed  for  the  night,  while  the  wind  and  the 
rat  and  the  sash  and  the  window-bolt  played 
a  ding-dong  "  hundred  and  fifty  up. "  Then 
the  wind  ran  out  and  the  billiards  stopped, 
and  I  felt  that  I  had  ruined  my  one  genuine, 
hall-market  ghost  story. 

Had  I  only  stopped  at  the  proper  time,  I 
could  have  made  anything  out  of  it. 

That  was  the  bitterest  thought  of  all  1 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF  MORROWBIE 
JUKES 


Alive   or    dead — there   is    no   other   way. — Native 
Proverb. 

THERE  is,  as  the  conjurers  say,  no  decep- 
tion about  this  tale.  Jukes  by  accident 
stumbled  upon  a  village  that  is  well  known 
to  exist,  though  he  is  the  only  Englishman 
who  has  been  there.  A  somewhat  similar 
institution  used  to  flourish  on  the  outskirts  of 
Calcutta,  and  there  is  a  story  that  if  you  go 
into  the  heart  of  Bikanir,  which  is  in  the 
heart  of  the  Great  Indian  Desert,  you  shall 
come  across  not  a  village,  but  a  town  where 
the  Dead  who  did  not  die  but  may  not  live 
have  established  their  headquarters.  And, 
since  it  is  perfectly  true  that  in  the  same 
Desert  is  a  wonderful  city  where  all  the  rich 
money-lenders  retreat  after  they  have  made 
their  fortunes  (fortunes  so  vast  that  the  owners 
cannot  trust  even  the  strong  hand  of  the  Gov- 
ernment to  protect  them,  but  take  refuge  in 
the  waterless  sands),  and  drive  sumptuous 
C-spring  barouches,  and  buy  beautiful  girls 
and  decorate  their  palaces  with  gold  and 
ivory  and  Minton  tiles  and  mother-o'-pearl,  I 
Jo  not  see  why  Jukes's  tale  should  not  be 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  57 

true.  He  is  a  Civil  Engineer,  with  a  head  for 
plans  and  distances  and  things  of  that  kind, 
and  he  certainly  would  not  take  the  trouble 
to  invent  imaginary  traps.  He  could  earn 
more  by  doing  his  legitimare  work.  He 
never  varies  the  tale  in  the  telling,  and  grows 
very  hot  and  indignant  when  he  thinks  of  the 
disrespectful  treatment  he  received.  He 
wrote  this  quite  straightforwardly  at  first,  but 
he  has  since  touched  it  up  in  places  and  in- 
troduced Moral  Reflections,  thus  : — 

In  the  beginning  it  all  arose  from  a  slight 
attack  of  fever.  My  work  necessitated  my 
being  in  camp  for  some  months  between 
Pakpattan  and  Mubarakpur — a  desolate  sandy 
stretch  of  country  as  every  one  who  has  had 
the  misfortune  to  go  there  may  know.  My 
coolies  were  neither  more  nor  less  exasperat- 
ing than  other  gangs,  and  my  work  demanded 
sufficient  attention  to  keep  me  from  moping, 
had  I  been  inclined  to  so  unmanly  a  weak- 
ness. 

On  the  23d  December,  1884,  I  felt  a  little 
feverish.  There  was  a  full  moon  at  the  time, 
and,  in  consequence,  every  dog  near  my  tent 
was  baying  it.  The  brutes  assembled  in 
twos  and  threes  and  drove  me  frantic.  A  few 
days  previously  I  had  shot  one  loud-mouthed 
singer  and  suspended  his  carcass  in  terrorent 
about  fifty  yards  from  my  tent-door.  But 
his  friends  fell  upon,  fought  for,  and  ulti- 
mately devoured  the  body  :  and,  as  it  seemed 


58       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

to  me,  sang  their  hymns  of  thanksgiving 
afterwards  with  renewed  energy. 

The  light-headedness  which  accompanies 
fever  acts  differently  on  different  men.  My 
irritation  gave  way,  after  a  short  time,  to  a 
fixed  determination  to  slaughter  one  huge 
black  and  white  beast  who  had  been  foremost 
in  song  and  first  in  flight  throughout  the 
evening.  Thanks  to  a  shaking  hand  and  a 
giddy  head  I  had  already  missed  him  twice 
with  both  barrels  of  my  shotgun,  when  it 
struck  me  that  my  best  plan  would  be  to  ride 
him  down  in  the  open  and  finish  him  off  with 
a  hog-spear.  This,  of  course,  was  merely  the 
semi-delirious  notion  of  a  fever  patient ;  but 
I  remember  that  it  struck  me  at  the  time  as 
being  eminently  practical  and  feasible. 

I  therefore  ordered  my  groom  to  saddle 
Pornic  and  bring  him  round  quietly  to  the 
rear  of  my  tent.  When  the  pony  was  ready, 
I  stood  at  his  head  prepared  to  mount  and 
dash  out  as  soon  as  the  dog  should  again  lift 
up  his  voice.  Pornic,  by  the  way,  had  not 
been  out  of  his  pickets  for  a  couple  of  days ; 
the  night  air  was  crisp  and  chilly  ;  and  I  was 
armed  with  a  specially  long  and  sharp  pair  of 
persuaders  with  which  I  had  been  rousing  a 
sluggish  cob  that  afternoon.  You  will  easily 
believe,  then,  that  when  he  was  let  go  he  went 
quickly.  In  one  moment,  for  the  brute  bolted 
as  straight  as  a  die,  the  tent  was  left  far  be- 
hind, and  we  were  flying  over  the  smooth 
sandy  soil  at  racing  speed.  In  another  we 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  59 

had  passed  the  wretched  dog,  and  I  had 
almost  forgotten  why  it  was  that  I  had  taken 
horse  and  hog-spear. 

The  delirium  of  fever  and  the  excitement  of 
rapid  motion  through  the  air  must  have  taken 
away  the  remnant  of  my  senses.  I  have  a 
faint  recollection  of  standing  upright  in  my 
stirrups,  and  of  brandishing  my  hog-spear  at 
the  great  white  Moon  that  looked  down  so 
calmly  on  my  mad  gallop ;  and  of  shouting 
challenges  to  the  camel-thorn  bushes  as  they 
whizzed  passed.  Once  or  twice,  I  believe,  I 
swayed  forward  on  Pornic's  neck,  and  literally 
hung  on  by  my  spurs — as  the  marks  next 
morning  showed. 

The  wretched  beast  went  forward  like  a 
thing  possessed,  over  what  seemed  to  be  a  lim- 
itless expanse  of  moonlit  sand.  Next,  I  re- 
member, the  ground  rose  suddenly  in  front  of 
us,  and  as  we  topped  the  ascent  I  saw  the 
waters  of  the  Sutlej  shining  like  a  silver  bar 
below.  The  Pornic  blundered  heavily  on  his 
nose,  and  we  rolled  together  down  some  un- 
seen slope. 

I  must  have  lost  consciousness,  for  when  I 
recovered  I  was  lying  on  my  stomach  in  a 
heap  of  soft  white  sand,  and  the  dawn  was 
beginning  to  break  dimly  over  the  edge  of  the 
slope  down  which  I  had  fallen.  As  the  light 
grew  stronger  I  saw  that  I  was  at  the  bottom 
of  a  horseshoe-shaped  crater  of  sand,  opening 
on  one  side  directly  on  to  the  shoals  of  the 
Sutlej.  My  fever  had  altogether  left  me,  and 


60       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

with  the  exception  of  a  slight  dizziness  in  the 
head,  I  felt  no  bad  effects  from  the  fall  over 
night. 

Pornic,  who  was  standing  a  few  yards  away, 
was  naturally  a  good  deal  exhausted,  but  had 
not  hurt  himself  in  the  least.  His  saddle,  a 
favorite  polo  one,  was  much  knocked  about, 
and  had  been  twisted  under  his  belly.  It 
took  me  some  time  to  put  him  to  rights,  and 
in  the  meantime  I  had  ample  opportunities 
of  observing  the  spot  into  which  I  had  so 
foolishly  dropped. 

At  the  risk  of  being  considered  tedious,  I 
must  describe  it  at  length  ;  inasmuch  as  an 
accurate  mental  picture  of  its  peculiarities  will 
be  of  material  assistance  in  enabling  the 
reader  to  understand  what  follows. 

Imagine  then,  as  I  have  said  before,  a 
horseshoe-shaped  crater  of  sand  with  steeply 
graded  sand  walls  about  thirty-five  feet  high. 
(The  slope,  I  fancy,  must  have  been  about 
65  °).  This  crater  enclosed  a  level  piece  of 
ground  about  fifty  yards  long  by  thirty  at  its 
broadest  part,  with  a  rude  well  in  the  center. 
Round  the  bottom  of  a  crater,  about  three 
feet  from  the  level  of  the  ground  proper,  ran 
a  series  of  eighty-three  semi-circular,  ovoid, 
square,  and  multilateral  holes,  all  about  three 
feet  at  the  mouth.  Each  hole  on  inspection 
showed  that  it  was  carefully  shored  internally 
with  driftwood  and  bamboos,  and  over  the 
mouth  a  wooden  drip-board  projected,  like 
the  peak  of  a  jockey's  cap,  for  two  feet.  No 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  61 

sign  of  life  was  visible  in  these  tunnels,  but  a 
most  sickening  stench  pervaded  the  entire 
amphitheater — a  stench  fouler  than  any  which 
my  wanderings  in  Indian  villages  have  in- 
troduced me  to. 

Having  remounted  Pornic,  who  was  as  anx- 
ious as  i  to  get  back  to  camp,  I  rode  round 
the  base  of  the  horseshoe  to  find  some  place 
whence  an  exit  would  be  practicable.  The 
inhabitants,  whoever  they  might  be,  had  not 
thought  fit  to  put  in  an  appearance,  so  I  was 
left  to  my  own  devices.  My  first  attempt  to 
"rush"  Pornic  up  the  steep  sand-banks 
showed  me  that  1  had  fallen  into  a  trap  ex- 
actly on  the  same  model  as  that  which  the 
ant-lion  sets  for  its  prey.  At  each  step  the 
shifting  sand  poured  down  from  above  in  tons, 
and  rattled  on  the  drip-boards  of  the  holes  like 
small  shot.  A  couple  of  ineffectual  charges 
sent  us  both  rolling  down  to  the  bottom,  half 
choked  with  the  torrents  of  sand ;  and  I  was 
constrained  to  turn  my  attention  to  the  river- 
bank. 

Here  everything  seemed  easy  enough.  The 
sand  hills  ran  down  to  the  river  edge,  it  is 
true,  but  there  were  plenty  of  shoals  and  shal- 
lows across  which  I  could  gallop  Pornic,  and 
find  my  way  back  to  terra  firma  by  turning 
sharply  to  the  right  or  the  left.  As  I  led  Por- 
nic over  the  sands  I  was  startled  by  the  faint 
pop  of  a  rifle  across  the  river  ;  and  at  the  same 
moment  a  bullet  dropped  with  a  sharp  "  whit" 
close  to  Pornic's  head. 


62       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  nature  of  the 
missile — a  regulation  Martini-Henry"  picket." 
About  five  hundred  yards  away  a  country-boat 
was  anchored  in  midstream  ;  and  a  jet  of 
smoke  drifting  away  from  its  bows  in  the  still 
morning  air  showed  me  whence  the  delicate 
attention  had  come.  Was  ever  a  respectable 
gentleman  in  such  an  impasse ?  The  treach- 
erous sand  slope  allowed  no  escape  from  a  spot 
which  I  had  visited  most  involuntarily,  and 
a  promenade  on  the  river  frontage  was  the 
signal  for  a  bombardment  from  some  insane 
native  in  a  boat.  I'm  afraid  that  1  lost  my 
temper  very  much  indeed. 

Another  bullet  reminded  me  that  I  had  better 
save  my  breath  to  cool  my  porridge;  and  I 
retreated  hastily  up  the  sands  and  back  to  the 
horseshoe,  where  I  saw  that  the  noise  of  the 
rifle  had  drawn  sixty-five  human  beings  from 
the  badger-holes  which  I  had  up  till  that  point 
supposed  to  be  untenanted.  I  found  myself 
in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  spectators  —  about 
forty  men,  twenty  women,  and  one  child  who 
could  not  have  been  more  than  five  years  old. 
They  were  all  scantily  clothed  in  that  salmon- 
colored  cloth  which  one  associates  with  Hindu 
mendicants,  and,  at  first  sight,  gave  me  the 
impression  of  a  band  of  loathsome  fakirs. 
The  filth  and  repulsiveness  of  the  assembly 
were  beyond  all  description,  and  I  shuddered 
to  think  what  their  life  in  the  badger-holes 
must  be. 

Even  in  these  days,  when  local  self-govern- 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  63 

ment  has  destroyed  the  greater  part  of  a  na- 
tive's respect  for  a  Sahib,  I  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  a  certain  amount  of  civility  from  my 
inferiors,  and  on  approaching  the  crowd  natu- 
rally expected  that  there  would  be  some  recog- 
nition of  my  presence.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
there  was  ;  but  it  was  by  no  means  what  I  had 
looked  for. 

The  ragged  crew  actually  laughed  at  me — 
such  laughter  I  hope  I  may  never  hear  again. 
They  cackled,  yelled,  whistled,  and  howled  as 
I  walked  into  their  midst ;  some  of  them  liter- 
ally throwing  themselves  down  on  the  ground 
in  convulsions  of  unholy  mirth.  In  a  moment 
I  had  let  go  Pornic's  head,  and,  irritated  be- 
yond expression  at  the  morning's  adventure, 
commenced  cuffing  those  nearest  to  me  with 
all  the  force  I  could.  The  wretches  dropped 
under  my  blows  like  nine-pins,  and  the  laughter 
gave  place  to  wails  for  mercy  ;  while  those  yet 
untouched  clasped  me  round  the  knees,  im- 
ploring me  in  all  sorts  of  uncouth  tongues  to 
spare  them. 

In  the  tumult,  and  just  when  I  was  feeling 
very  much  ashamed  of  myself  for  having  thus 
easily  given  way  to  my  temper,  a  thin,  high 
voice  murmured  in  English  from  behind  my 
shoulder  : — "  Sahib !  Sahib  !  Do  you  not 
know  me  ?  Sahib,  it  is  Gunga  Dass,  the  tele- 
graph-master." 

I  spun  round  quickly  and  faced  the  speaker. 

Gunga  Dass  (I  have,  of  course,  no  hesita- 
tion in  mentioning  the  man's  real  name)  I  had 


64       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

known  four  years  before  as  a  Deccanee  Brah- 
min lent  by  the  Punjab  Government  to  one  of 
the  Khalsia  States.  He  was  in  charge  of  a 
branch  telegraph-office  there,  and  when  I  had 
last  met  him  was  a  jovial,  full-stomached, 
portly  Government  servant  with  a  marvelous 
capacity  for  making  bad  puns  in  English--  a 
peculiarity  which  made  me  remember  him  long 
after  I  had  forgotten  his  services  to  me  in  his 
official  capacity.  It  is  seldom  that  a  Hindu 
makes  English  puns. 

Now,  however,  the  man  was  changed  beyond 
all  recognition.  Caste-mark,  stomach,  slate- 
colored  continuations,  and  unctuous  speech 
were  all  gone.  I  looked  at  a  withered  skele- 
ton, turbanless  and  almost  naked,  with  long 
matted  hair  and  deep-set  codfish-eyes.  But 
for  a  crescent-shaped  scar  on  the  left  cheek — 
the  result  of  an  accident  for  which  I  was  re- 
sponsible— I  should  never  have  known  him. 
But  it  was  indubitably  Gunga  Dass,  and — for 
this  I  was  thankful — an  English-speaking  na- 
tive who  might  at  least  tell  me  the  meaning  of 
all  that  I  had  gone  through  that  day. 

The  crowd  retreated  to  some  distance  as  I 
turned  towards  the  miserable  figure,  and  or- 
dered him  to  show  me  some  method  of  escap- 
ing from  the  crater.  He  held  a  freshly  plucked 
crow  in  his  hand,  and  in  reply  to  my  question 
climbed  slowly  on  a  platform  of  sand  which 
ran  in  front  of  the  holes,  and  commenced 
lighting  a  fire  there  in  silence.  Dried  bents, 
sand-poppies,  and  driftwood  burn  quickly; 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  65 

and  I  derived  much  consolation  from  the  fact 
that  he  lit  them  with  an  ordinary  sulphur- 
match.  When  they  were  in  a  bright  glow,  and 
the  crow  was  neatly  spitted  in  front  thereof, 
Gunga  Dass  began  without  a  word  of  pre- 
amble : — 

"There  are  only  two  kinds  of  men,  Sar. 
The  alive  and  the  dead.  When  you  are  dead 
you  are  dead,  but  when  you  are  alive  you  live." 
(Here  the  crow  demanded  his  attention  for  an 
instant  as  it  twirled  before  the  fire  in  danger 
of  being  burnt  to  a  cinder.)  "If  you  die  at 
home  and  do  not  die  when  you  come  to  the 
ghat  to  be  burnt  you  come  here." 

The  nature  of  the  reeking  village  was  made 
plain  now,  and  all  that  I  had  known  or  read 
of  the  grotesque  and  the  horrible  paled  before 
the  fact  just  communicated  by  the  ex-Brahmin. 
Sixteen  years  ago,  when  I  first  landed  in  Bom- 
bay, I  had  been  told  by  a  wandering  Armenian 
of  the  existence,  somewhere  in  India,  of  a 
place  to  which  such  Hindus  as  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  recover  from  trance  or  catalepsy 
were  conveyed  and  kept,  and  I  recollect  laugh- 
ing heartily  at  what  I  was  then  pleased  to  con- 
sider a  traveler's  tale.  Sitting  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sand-trap,  the  memory  of  Watson's 
Hotel,  with  its  swinging  punkahs,  white-robed 
attendants,  and  the  sallowed  faced  Armenian, 
rose  up  in  my  mind  as  vividly  as  a  photograph, 
and  I  burst  into  a  loud  fit  of  laughter.  The 
contrast  was  too  absurd  ! 

Gunga  Dass,  as  he  bent  over  the  unclean 

5 


66       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

bird,  watched  me  curiously.  Hindus  seldom 
laugh,  and  his  surroundings  were  not  such  as 
to  move  Gunga  Dass  to  any  undue  excess  of 
hilarity.  He  removed  the  crow  solemnly  from 
the  wooden  spit  and  as  solemnly  devoured  it. 
Then  he  continned  his  story,  which  I  give  in 
his  own  words  : — 

"  In  epidemics  of  the  cholera  you  are  car- 
ried to  be  burnt  almost  before  you  are  dead. 
When  you  come  to  the  riverside  the  cold  air, 
perhaps,  makes  you  alive,  and  then,  if  you  are 
only  little  alive,  mud  is  put  on  your  nose  and 
mouth  and  you  die  conclusively.  If  you  are 
rather  more  alive,  more  mud  is  put ;  but  if  you 
are  too  lively  they  let  you  go  and  take  you  away. 
I  was  too  lively,  and  made  protestation  with 
anger  against  the  indignities  that  they  endeav*- 
ored  to  press  upon  me.  In  those  days  I  was 
Brahmin  and  proud  man.  Now  I  am  dead 
man  and  eat" — here  he  eyed  the  well-gnawed 
breast  bone  with  the  first  sign  of  emotion 
that  I  had  seen  in  him  since  we  met — "  crows, 
and  other  things.  They  took  me  from  my 
sheets  when  they  saw  that  I  was  too  lively  and 
gave  me  medicines  for  one  week,  and  I  sur- 
vived successfully.  Then  they  sent  me  by 
rail  from  my  place  to  Okara  Station  with  a 
man  to  take  care  of  me  ;  and  at  Okara  Station 
we  met  two  other  men,  and  they  conducted 
we  three  on  camels,  in  the  night,  from  Okara 
Station  to  this  place,  and  they  propelled  me 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom,  and  the  other  two 
succeeded,  and  I  have  been  here  ever  since,  two 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  67 

and  a  half  years.  Once  I  was  Brahmin  and 
proud  man,  and  now  I  eat  crows." 

"  There  is  no  way  of  getting  out  ?  " 

"  None  of  what  kind  at  all.  When  I  first 
came  I  made  experiments  frequently  and  all 
the  others  also,  but  we  have  always  suc- 
cumbed to  the  sand  which  is  precipitated 
upon  our  heads." 

"  But  surely,"  I  broke  in  at  this  point, 
"the  river-front  is  open,  and  it  is  worth 
while  dodging  the  bullets  ;  while  at  night " 

I  had  already  matured  a  rough  plan  of 
escape  which  a  natural  instinct  of  selfishness 
forbade  me  sharing  with  Gunga  Dass.  He, 
however,  divined  my  unspoken  thought  al- 
most as  soon  as  it  was  formed ;  and,  to  my 
intense  astonishment,  gave  vent  to  a  long 
low  chuckle  of  derision — the  laughter,  be  it 
understood,  of  a  superior  or  at  least  of  an 
equal.  M  You  will  not  " — he  had  dropped  the 
Sir  completely  after  his  opening  sentence — 
"  make  any  escape  that  way.  But  you  can 
try.  I  have  tried.  Once  only. " 

The  sensation  of  nameless  terror  and  abject 
fear  which  I  had  in  vain  attempted  to  strive 
against  overmastered  me  completely.  My 
long  fast — it  was  now  close  upon  ten  o'clock, 
and  I  had  eaten  nothing  since  tiffin  on  the 
previous  day — combined  with  the  violent  and 
unnatural  agitation  of  the  ride  had  exhausted 
me,  and  I  verily  believe  that,  for  a  few  min- 
utes, I  acted  as  one  mad.  I  hurled  myself 
against  the  pitiless  sand-slope.  I  ran  round 


68       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

the  base  of  the  crater,  blaspheming  and 
praying  by  turns.  I  crawled  out  among  the 
sedges  of  the  river-front,  only  to  be  driven 
back  each  time  in  an  agony  of  nervous  dread 
by  the  rifle-bullets  which  cut  up  the  sand 
round  me — for  I  dared  not  face  the  death 
of  a  mad  dog  among  that  hideous  crowd — 
and  finally  fell,  spent  and  raving,  at  the  curb 
of  the  well.  No  one  had  taken  the  slightest 
notice  of  an  exhibition  which  makes  me  blush 
hotly  even  when  I  think  of  it  now. 

Two  or  three  men  trod  on  my  panting 
body  as  they  drew  water,  but  they  were  evi- 
dently used  to  this  sort  of  thing,  and  had  no 
time  to  waste  upon  me.  The  situation  was 
humiliating.  Gunga  Dass,  indeed,  when  he 
had  banked  the  embers  of  his  fire  with  sand, 
was  at  some  pains  to  throw  half  a  cupful  o£ 
fetid  water  over  my  head,  an  attention  for 
which  I  could  have  fallen  on  my  knees  and 
thanked  him,  but  he  was  laughing  all  the 
while  in  the  same  mirthless,  wheezy  key 
that  greeted  me  on  my  first  attempt  to  force 
the  shoals.  And  so,  in  a  semi-comatose 
condition,  I  lay  till  noon.  Then,  being  only 
a  man  after  all,  I  felt  hungry,  and  intimated 
as  much  to  Gunga  Dass,  whom  I  had  begun 
to  regard  as  my  natural  protector.  Follow 
ing  the  impulse  of  the  outer  world  when 
dealing  with  natives,  I  put  my  hand  into  my 
pocket  and  drew  out  four  annas.  The  ab- 
surdity of  the  gift  struck  me  at  once,  and  J 
was  about  to  replace  f4ie  money. 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  69 

Gunga  Dass,  however,  was  of  a  different 
opinion.  "  Give  me  the  money,"  said  he  ; 
"  all  you  have,  or  I  will  get  help,  and  we 
will  kill  you  ! "  All  this  as  if  it  were  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  ! 

A  Briton's  first  impulse,  I  believe,  is  to 
guard  the  contents  of  his  pockets ;  but  a 
moment's  reflection  convinced  me  of  the  fu- 
tility of  differing  with  the  one  man  who  had 
it  in  his  power  to  make  me  comfortable  ;  and 
with  whose  help  it  was  possible  that  I  might 
eventually  escape  from  the  crater.  I  gave 
him  all  the  money  in  my  possession,  Rs.  9-8- 
5 — nine  rupees  eight  annas  and  five  pie — 
for  I  always  keep  small  change  as  bakshish 
when  I  am  in  camp.  Gunga  Dass  clutched 
the  coins,  and  hid  them  at  once  in  his  ragged 
loin-cloth,  his  expression  changing  to  some- 
thing diabolical  as  he  looked  round  to  assure 
himself  that  no  one  had  observed  us. 

"  Now  I  will  give  you  something  to  eat," 
said  he. 

What  pleasure  the  possession  of  my 
money  could  have  afforded  him  I  am  unable 
to  say ;  but  inasmuch  as  it  did  give  him  evi- 
dent delight  I  was  not  sorry  that  I  had 
parted  with  it  so  readily,  for  I  had  no  doubt 
that  he  would  have  had  me  killed  if  I  had 
refused.  One  does  not  protest  against  the 
vagaries  of  a  den  of  wild  beasts ;  and  my 
companions  were  lower  than  any  beasts. 
While  I  devoured  what  Gunga  Dass  had 
provided,  a  coarse  chapatti  and  a  cupful 


70       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

of  the  foul  well-water,  the  people  showed 
not  the  faintest  sign  of  curiosity — that 
curiosity  which  is  so  rampant,  as  a  rule,  in 
an  Indian  village. 

I  could  even  fancy  that  they  despised  me. 
At  all  events  they  treated  me  with  the  most 
chilling  indifference,  and  Gunga  Dass  was 
nearly  as  bad.  I  plied  him  with  questions 
about  the  terrible  village,  and  received  ex- 
tremely unsatisfactory  answers.  So  far  as  I 
could  gather,  it  had  been  in  existence  from 
time  immemorial — whence  I  concluded  that 
it  was  at  least  a  century  old — and  during  that 
time  no  one  had  ever  been  known  to  escape 
from  it.  [I  had  to  control  myself  here  with 
both  hands,  lest  the  blind  terror  should  lay 
hold  of  me  a  second  time  and  drive  me  rav- 
ing round  the  crater.]  Gunga  Dass  took  a 
malicious  pleasure  in  emphasizing  this  point 
and  in  watching  me  wince.  Nothing  that  I 
could  do  would  induce  him  to  tell  me  who  the 
mysterious  "  They  "  were. 

"  It  is  so  ordered,"  he  would  reply,  "  a/id 
I  do  not  j'et  know  any  one  who  has  disobeyed 
the  orders." 

"  Only  wait  till  my  servants  find  that  I  am 
missing,"  I  retorted,  "  and  I  promise  you  that 
this  place  shall  be  cleared  off  the  face  of  the 
earth,  and  I'll  give  you  a  lesson  in  civility, 
too,  my  friend." 

"  Your  servants  would  be  torn  in  pieces 
before  they  came  near  this  place  ;  and,  be- 
sides, you  are  dead,  my  dear  friend.  It  is 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  71 

not  your  fault,  of  course,  but  none  the  less 
you  are  dead  and  buried." 

At  irregular  intervals  supplies  of  food,  I 
was  told,  were  dropped  down  from  the  land 
side  into  the  amphitheater,  and  the  inhabitants 
fought  for  them  like  wild  beasts.  When  a 
man  felt  his  death  coming  on  he  retreated  to 
his  lair  and  died  there.  The  body  was  some- 
times dragged  out  of  the  hole  and  thrown  on 
to  the  sand,  or  allowed  to  rot  where  it  lay. 

The  phrase  "  thrown  on  to  the  sand  "  caught 
my  attention,  and  I  asked  Gunga  Dass 
whether  this  sort  of  thing  was  not  likely  to 
breed  a  pestilence. 

"That,"  said  he,  with  another  of  his 
wheezy  chuckles,  "  you  may  see  for  yourself 
subsequently.  You  will  have  much  time  to 
make  observations." 

Whereat,  to  his  great  delight,  I  winced  once 
more  and  hastily  continued  the  conversation  : 
— "  And  how  do  you  live  here  from  day  to 
day  ?  What  do  you  do  ? "  The  question 
elicited  exactly  the  same  answer  as  before — 
coupled  with  the  information  that  "  this  place 
is  like  your  European  heaven  ;  there  is 
neither  marrying  nor  giving  in  marriage." 

Gunga  Dass  had  been  educated  at  a  Mis- 
sion School,  and,  as  he  himself  admitted,  had 
he  only  changed  his  religion  "like  a  wise 
man,"  might  have  avoided  the  living  grave 
which  was  now  his  portion.  But  as  long  as 
I  was  with  him  I  fancy  he  was  happy. 

Here  was  a  Sahib,  a  representative  of  the 


72       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

dominant  race,  helpless  as  a  child  and  com- 
pletely at  the  mercy  of  his  native  neighbors. 
In  a  deliberate  lazy  way  he  set  himself  to 
torture  me  as  a  schoolboy  would  devote  a 
rapturous  half-hour  to  watching  the  agonies 
of  an  impaled  beetle,  or  as  a  ferret  in  a  blind 
burrow  might  glue  himself  comfortably  to 
the  neck  of  a  rabbit.  The  burden  of  his  con- 
versation was  that  there  was  no  escape  "  of 
no  K-nd  wflHtever,"  and  that  I  should  stay 
here  till  I  died  and  was  "  thrown  on  to  the 
sand."  If  it  were  possible  to  forejudge  the 
conversation  of  the  Damned  on  the  advent  of 
a  new  soul  in  their  abode,  I  should  say  that 
they  would  speak  as  Gunga  Dass  did  to  me 
throughout  that  long  afternoon.  I  was  power- 
less to  protest  or  answer;  all  my  energies 
being  devoted  to  a  struggle  against  the  inex- 
plicable terror  that  threatened  to  overwhelm 
me  again  and  again.  I  can  compare  the 
feeling  to  nothing  except  the  struggles  of  a 
man  against  the  overpowering  nausea  of  the 
Channel  passage — only  my  agony  was  of  the 
spirit  and  infinitely  more  terrible. 

As  the  day  wore  on,  the  inhabitants  began 
to  appear  in  full  strength  to  catch  the  rays  ot 
the  afternoon  sun,  which  were  now  sloping 
in  at  the  mouth  of  the  crater.  They  assem- 
bled in  little  knots,  and  talked  among  them- 
selves without  even  throwing  a  glance  in  my 
direction.  About  four  o'clock,  as  far  as  I 
could  judge,  Gunga  Dass  rose  and  dived  into 
his  lair  for  a  moment,  emerging  with  a  live 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  73 

crow  in  his  hands.  The  wretched  bird  was 
in  a  most  draggled  and  deplorable  condition, 
but  seemed  to  be  in  no  way  afraid  of  its 
master.  Advancing  cautiously  to  the  river- 
front, Gunga  Dass  stepped  from  tussock  to 
tussock  until  he  had  reached  a  smooth  patch 
of  sand  directly  in  the  line  of  the  boat's  fire. 
The  occupants  of  the  boat  took  no  notice. 
Here  he  stopped,  and  with  a  couple  of  dexter- 
ous turns  of  the  wrist,  pegged  the  bird  on  its 
back  with  outstretched  wings.  As  was  only 
natural,  the  crow  began  to  shriek  at  once  and 
beat  the  air  with  its  claws.  In  a  few  seconds 
the  clamor  had  attracted  the  attention  of  a 
bevy  of  wild  crows  on  a  shoal  a  few  hundred 
yards  away,  where  they  were  discussing 
something  that  looked  like  a  corpse.  Half 
a  dozen  crows  flew  over  at  once  to  see  what 
was  going  on,  and  also,  as  it  proved,  to 
attack  the  pinioned  bird.  Gunga  Dass,  who 
had  lain  down  on  a  tussock,  motioned  to  me 
to  be  quiet,  though  I  fancy  this  w;is  a  need- 
less precaution.  In  a  moment,  and  before  I 
could  see  how  it  happened,  a  wild  crow,  who 
had  grappled  with  the  shrieking  and  helpless 
bird,  was  entangled  in  the  latter's  claws,  swift- 
ly disengaged  by  Gunga  Dass,  and  pegged 
down  beside  its  companion  in  adversity. 
Curiosity,  it  seemed,  overpowered  the  rest  of 
the  flock,  and  almost  before  Gunga  Dass  and 
I  had  time  to  withdraw  to  the  tussock,  two 
more  captives  were  struggling  in  the  upturned 
claws  of  the  decoys.  So  the  chase — if  I  can 


74       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

give  it  so  dignified  a  name — continued  until 
Gunga  Dass  had  captured  se\ren  crows.  Five 
of  them  he  throttled  at  once,  reserving  two 
for  further  operations  another  day.  I  was  a 
good  deal  impressed  by  this,  to  me,  novel 
method  of  securing  food,  and  complimented 
Gunga  Dass  on  his  skill. 

"  It  is  nothing  to  do,"  said  he.  u  To-mor- 
row you  must  do  it  for  me.  You  are  stronger 
than  I  am." 

This  calm  assumption  of  superiority  upset 
me  not  a  little,  and  I  answered  peremptorily  : 
— "  Indeed,  you  old  ruffian  !  What  do  you 
think  I  have  given  you  money  for  ?  " 

"  Very  well,"  was  the  unmoved  reply. 
"  Perhaps  not  to-morrow,  nor  the  day  after, 
nor  subsequently;  but  in  the  end,  and  for 
many  years,  you  will  catch  crows  and  eat 
crows,  and  you  will  thank  your  European 
Gods  that  you  have  crows  to  catch  and  eat." 

I  could  have  cheerfully  strangled  him  for 
this ;  but  judged  it  best  under  the  circum- 
stances to  smother  my  resentment.  An  hour 
later  I  was  eating  one  of  the  crows;  and,  as 
Gunga  Dass  had  said,  thanking  my  God  that 
I  had  a  crow  to  eat.  Never  as  long  as  I  live 
shall  I  forget  that  evening  meal.  The  whole 
population  were  squatting  on  the  hard  sand 
platform  opposite  their  dens,  huddled  over 
tiny  fires  of  refuse  and  dried  rushes.  Death, 
having  once  laid  his  hand  upon  these  men 
and  forborne  to  strike,  seemed  to  stand  aloof 
from  them  now ;  for  most  of  our  company 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  75 

were  old  men,  bent  and  worn  and  twisted 
with  years,  and  women  aged  to  all  appear- 
ance as  the  Fates  themselves.  They  sat  to- 
gether in  knots  and  talked — God  only  knows 
what  they  found  to  discuss — in  low  equable 
tones,  curiously  in  contrast  to  the  strident 
babble  with  which  natives  are  accustomed  to 
make  day  hideous.  Now  and  then  an  access 
of  that  sudden  fury  which  had  possessed  me 
in  the  morning  would  lay  hold  on  a  man  or 
woman ;  and  with  yells  and  imprecations  the 
sufferer  would  attack  the  steep  slope  until, 
baffled  and  bleeding,  he  fell  back  on  the  plat- 
form incapable  of  moving  a  limb.  The  others 
would  never  even  raise  their  eyes  when  this 
happened,  as  men  too  well  aware  of  the  fu- 
tility of  their  fellows'  attempts  and  wearied 
with  their  useless  repetition.  I  saw  four  such 
outbursts  in  the  course  of  that  evening. 

Gunga  Dass  took  an  eminently  business- 
like view  of  my  situation,  and  while  ws  were 
dining — I  can  afford  to  laugh  at  the  recollec- 
tion now,  but  it  was  painful  enough  at  the 
time — propounded  the  terms  on  which  he 
would  consent  to  "do"  for  me.  My  nine 
rupees  eight  annas,  he  argued,  at  the  rate  of 
three  annas  a  day,  would  provide  me  with 
food  for  fifty-one  days,  or  about  seven  weeks  ; 
that  is  to  say,  he  would  be  willing  to  cater  for 
me  for  that  length  of  time.  At  the  end  of  it 
I  was  to  look  after  myself.  For  a  further  con- 
sideration— videlicet  my  boots — he  would  be 
willing  to  allow  me  to  occupy  the  den  next  to  his 


76       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

own,  and  would  supply  me  with  as  much  dried 
grass  for  bedding  as  he  could  spare. 

"Very  well,  Gunga  Dass,"  I  replied;  "to 
the  first  terms  I  cheerfully  agree,  but,  as  there 
is  nothing  on  earth  to  prevent  my  killing  you 
as  you  sit  here  and  taking  everything  that 
you  have  "  (I  thought  of  the  two  invaluable 
crows  at  the  time),  "  I  flatly  refuse  to  give  you 
my  boots  and  shall  take  whichever  den  I 
please." 

The  stroke  was  a  bold  one,  and  I  was  glad 
when  I  saw  that  it  had  succeeded.  Gunga 
Dass  changed  his  tone  immediately,  and  dis- 
avowed all  intention  of  asking  for  my  boots. 
At  the  time  it  did  not  strike  me  as  at  all 
strange  that  I,  a  Civil  Engineer,  a  man  of 
thirteen  years'  standing  in  the  Service,  and  I 
trust,  an  average  Englishman,  should  thus 
calmly  threaten  murder  and  violence  against 
the  man  who  had,  for  a  consideration,  it  is  true, 
taken  me  under  his  wing.  I  had  left  the 
world,  it  seemed,  for  centuries.  I  was  as  cer- 
tain then  as  I  am  now  of  my  own  existence, 
that  in  the  accursed  settlement  there  wns  no 
law  save  that  of  the  strongest;  that  the  living 
dead  men  had  thrown  behind  them  every  canon 
of  the  world  which  had  cast  them  out ;  and 
that  I  had  to  depend  for  my  own  life  on  my 
strength  and  vigilance  alone.  The  crew  of 
the  ill-fated  Mignonette  are  the  only  men  who 
would  understand  my  frame  of  mind.  "At 
present,"  I  argued  to  myself,  "  I  am  strong  and 
a  match  for  six  of  these  wretches.  It  is  im« 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  77 

peratively  necessary  that  I  should,  for  my  own 
sake,  keep  both  health  and  strength  until  the 
hour  of  my  release  comes — if  it  ever  does." 

Fortified  with  these  resolutions,  I  ate  and 
drank  as  much  as  I  could,  and  made  Gunga 
Dass  understand  that  I  intended  to  be  his 
master,  and  that  the  least  sign  of  insubordi- 
nation on  his  part  would  be  visited  with  the 
only  punishment  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  in- 
flict— sudden  and  violent  death.  Shortly  after 
this  I  went  to  bed.  That  is  to  say,  Gunga 
Dass  gave  me  a  double  armful  of  dried  bents 
which  I  thrust  down  the  mouth  of  the  lair  to 
the  right  of  his,  and  followed  myself,  feet  fore- 
most; the  hole  running  about  nine  feet  into 
the  sand  with  a  slight  downward  inclination, 
and  being  neatly  shored  with  timbers.  From 
my  den,  which  faced  the  river-front,  I  was 
able  to  watch  the  waters  of  the  Sutlej  flowing 
past  under  the  light  of  a  young  moon  and 
composed  myself  to  sleep  as  best  I  might. 

The  horrors  of  that  night  I  shall  never  for- 
get. My  den  was  nearly  as  narrow  as  a  coffin, 
and  the  sides  had  been  worn  smooth  and 
greasy  by  the  contact  of  innumerable  naked 
bodies,  added  to  which  it  smelled  abominably. 
Sleep  was  altogether  out  of  question  to  one  in 
my  excited  frame  of  mind.  As  the  night  wore 
on,  it  seemed  that  the  entire  amphitheater  was 
filled  with  legions  of  unclean  devils  that,  troop- 
ing up  from  the  shoals  below,  mocked  the 
unfortunates  in  their  lairs. 

Personally  I  am  not  of  an  imaginative  tern- 


78       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

perament, — very  few  Engineers  are, — but  on 
that  occasion  I  was  as  completely  prostrated 
with  nervous  terror  as  any  woman.  After  half 
an  hour  or  so,  however,  I  was  able  once  more 
to  calmly  review  my  chances  of  escape.  Any 
exit  by  the  steep  sand  walls  was,  of  course, 
impracticable.  I  had  been  thoroughly  con- 
vinced of  this  some  time  before.  It  was 
possible,  just  possible,  that  I  might,  in  the 
uncertain  moonlight,  safely  run  the  gauntlet 
of  the  rifle  shots.  The  place  was  so  full  of 
terror  for  me  that  I  was  prepared  to  undergo 
any  risk  in  leaving  it.  Imagine  my  delight, 
then,  when  after  creeping  stealthily  to  the 
river-front  I  found  that  the  infernal  boat  was 
not  there.  My  freedom  lay  before  me  in  the 
next  few  steps  ! 

By  walking  out  to  the  first  shallow  pool 
that  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  projecting  left  horn 
of  the  horseshoe,  I  could  wade  across,  turn 
the  flank  of  the  crater,  and  make  my  way  in- 
land. Without  a  moment's  hesitation  I 
marched  briskly  past  the  tussocks  where 
Gunga  Dass  had  snared  the  crows,  and  out  in 
the  direction  of  the  smooth  white  sand  beyond. 
My  first  step  from  the  tufts  of  dried  grass 
showed  me  how  utterly  futile  was  any  hope  of 
escape;  for,  as  I  put  my  foot  down,  I  felt  an 
indescribable  drawing,  sucking  motion  of  the 
sand  below.  Another  moment  and  my  leg 
•was  swallowed  up  nearly  to  the  knee.  In  the 
moonlight  the  whole  surface  of  the  sand 
seemed  to  be  shaken  with  devilish  delight  at 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  79 

my  disappointment.  I  struggled  clear,  sweat- 
ing with  terror  and  exertion,  back  to  the  tus- 
socks behind  me  and  fell  on  my  face. 

My  only  means  of  escape  from  the  semi- 
circle was  protected  with  a  quicksand  ! 

How  long  I  lay  I  have  not  the  faintest  idea  ; 
but  I  was  roused  at  last  by  the  malevolent 
chuckle  of  Gunga  Dass  at  my  ear.  "I  would 
advise  you,  Protector  of  the  Poor"  (the  ruffian 
was  speaking  English)  "  to  return  to  your 
house.  It  is  unhealthy  to  lie  down  here. 
Moreover,  when  the  boat  returns,  you  will 
most  certainly  be  rifled  at."  He  stood  over 
me  in  the  dim  light  of  the  dawn,  chuckling 
and  laughing  to  himself.  Suppressing  my  first 
impulse  to  catch  the  man  by  the  neck  and 
throw  him  on  to  the  quicksand,  I  rose  sullenly 
and  followed  him  to  the  platform  below  the 
burrows. 

Suddenly,  and  futilely  as  I  thought  while  I 
spoke,  I  asked: — "Gunga  Dass,  what  is  the 
good  of  the  boat  if  I  can't  get  out  anyhow  ?  " 
I  recollect  that  even  in  my  deepest  trouble  I 
had  been  speculating  vaguely  on  the  waste  of 
ammunition  in  guarding  an  already  well  pro- 
tected foreshore. 

Gunga  Dass  laughed  agnin  and  made 
answer: — "They  have  the  boat  only  in  day- 
time. It  is  for  the  reason  that  there  is  a  way. 
I  hope  we  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  yourcom- 
pany  for  much  longer  time.  It  is  a  pleasant 
spot  when  you  have  been  here  some  years  and 
eaten  roast  crow  long  enough." 


80       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

I  staggered,  numbed  and  helpless,  towards 
the  fetid  burrow  allotted  to  me,  and  fell  asleep. 
An  hour  or  so  later  I  was  awakened  by  a 
piercing  scream — the  shrill,  high-pitched 
scream  of  a  horse  in  pain.  Those  who  have 
once  heard  that  will  never  forget  the  sound. 
I  found  some  little  difficulty  in  scrambling  out 
of  the  burrow.  When  I  was  in  the  open,  I 
saw  Pornic,  my  poor  old  Pornic,  lying  dead  on 
the  sandy  soil.  How  they  had  killed  him  I 
cannot  guess.  Gunga  Dass  explained  that 
horse  was  better  than  crow,  and  "  greatest  good 
of  greatest  number."  is  political  maxim. 
We  are  now  Republic,  Mister  Jukes,  and 
you  are  entitled  to  a  fair  share  of  the  beast.  If 
you  like,  we  will  pass  a  vote  of  thanks.  Shall 
I  propose  ? " 

Yes,  we  were  a  Republic  indeed  !  A  Re- 
public of  wild  beasts  penned  at  the  bottom  of 
a  pit,  to  eat  and  fight  and  sleep  till  we  died. 
I  attempted  no  protest  of  any  kind,  but  sat 
down  and  stared  at  the  hideous  sight  in  front 
of  me.  In  less  time  almost  than  it  takes  me 
to  write  this,  Pornic's  body  was  divided,  in 
some  unclean  way  or  other;  the  men  and 
women  had  dragged  the  fragments  on  to  the 
platform  and  were  preparing  their  morning 
meal.  Gunga  Dass  cooked  mine.  The  al- 
most irresistible  impulse  to  fly  at  the  sand 
walls  until  I  was  wearied  laid  hold  of  me 
afresh,  and  I  had  to  struggle  against  it  with 
all  my  might.  Gunga  Dass  was  offensively 
jocular  till  I  told  him  that  if  he  addressed  an- 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  81 

other  remark  of  any  kind  whatever  to  me  I 
should  strangle  him  where  he  sat.  This  si- 
lenced him  till  silence  became  insupportable, 
and  I  bade  him  say  something. 

"  You  will  live  here  till  you  die  like  the 
other  Feringhi,"  he  said  coolly,  watching  me 
over  the  fragment  of  gristle  that  he  was  gnaw- 
ing. 

"  What  other  Sahib,  you  swine  ?  Speak  at 
once,  and  don't  stop  to  tell  me  a  lie." 

"  He  is  over  there,"  answered  Gunga  Dass, 
pointing  to  a  burrow-mouth  about  four  doors 
to  the  left  of  my  own.  "  You  can  see  for 
yourself.  He  died  in  the  burrow  as  you  will 
die,  and  I  will  die,  and  as  all  these  men  and 
women  and  the  one  child  will  also  die." 

"For  pity's  sake  tell  me  all  you  know  about 
him.  Who  was  he  ?  When  did  he  come, 
and  when  did  he  die  ? " 

This  appeal  was  a  weak  step  on  my  part. 
Gunga  Dass  only  leered  and  replied  : — "  I 
will  not — unless  you  give  me  something 
first." 

Then  I  recollected  where  I  was,  and  struck 
the  man  between  the  eyes,  partially  stunning 
him.  He  stepped  down  from  the  platform  at 
once,  and,  cringing  and  fawning  and  weeping 
and  attempting  to  embrace  my  feet,  led  me 
round  to  the  burrow  which  he  had  indicated. 

"  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  the  gentle- 
man. Your  God  be  my  witness  that  I  do  not. 
He  was  as  anxious  to  escape  as  you  were, 
and  he  was  shot  from  the  boat,  though  w§ 
6 


82       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

all  did  all  things  to  prevent  him  from  attempt' 
ing.  He  was  shot  here."  Gunga  Dass  laid 
his  hand  on  his  lean  stomach  and  bowed  to 
the  earth. 

"  Well,  and  what  then  ?     Go  on  !  " 

"  And  then — and  then,  Your  Honor,  we 
carried  him  in  to  his  house  and  gave  him 
water,  and  put  wet  cloths  on  the  wound,  and 
he  laid  down  in  his  house  and  gave  up  the 
ghost. " 

"  In  how  long  ?     In  how  long  ?  " 

"  About  half  an  hour,  after  he  received  his 
wound.  I  call  Vishn  to  witness,"  yelled  the 
wretched  man,  "that  I  did  everything  for 
him.  Everything  which  was  possible,  that 
I  did  !  " 

He  threw  himself  down  on  the  ground  and 
clasped  my  ankles.  But  I  had  my  doubts 
about  Gunga  Bass's  benevolence,  and  kicked 
him  off  as  he  lay  protesting. 

"  I  believe  you  robbed  him  of  everything 
he  had.  But  I  can  find  out  in  a  minute  or 
two.  How  long  was  the  Sahib  here  ?  " 

"  Nearly  a  year  and  a  half.  I  think  he 
must  have  gone  mad.  But  hear  me  swear, 
Protector  of  the  Poor  !  Won't  Your  Honor 
hear  me  swear  that  I  never  touched  an  article 
that  belonged  to  him  ?  What  is  Your  Wor- 
ship going  to  do  ?  " 

I  had  taken  Gunga  Dass  by  the  waist  and 
had  hauled  him  on  to  the  platform  opposite 
the  deserted  burrow.  As  I  did  so  I  thought 
of  my  wretched  fellow-prisoner's  unspeakable 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  83 

misery  among  all  these  horrors  for  eighteen 
months,  and  the  final  agony  of  dying  like  a 
rat  in  a  hole,  with  a  bullet-wound  in  the 
stomach.  Gunga  Dass  fancied  I  was  going 
to  kill  him  and  howled  pitifully.  The  rest  of 
the  population,  in  the  plethora  that  follows  a 
full  flesh  meal,  watched  us  without  stirring. 

"Go  inside,  Gunga  Dass,"  said  I,  "and 
fetch  it  out." 

I  was  feeling  sick  and  faint  with  horror 
now.  Gunga  Dass  nearly  rolled  off  the  plat- 
form and  howled  aloud. 

"  But  I  am  Brahmin,  Sahib — a  high-caste 
Brahmin.  By  your  soul,  by  your  father's  soul, 
do  not  make  me  do  this  thing!  " 

"  Brahmin  or  no  Brahmin,  by  my  soul  and 
my  father's  soul,  in  you  go !  "  I  said,  and, 
seizing  him  by  the  shoulders,  I  crammed  his 
head  into  the  mouth  of  the  burrow,  kicked 
the  rest  of  him  in,  and,  sitting  down,  covered 
my  face  with  my  hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  minutes  I  heard  a  rustle 
and  a  creak ;  then  Gunga  Dass  in  a  sobbing, 
choking  whisper  speaking  to  himself  ;  then  a 
soft  thud — and  I  uncovered  my  eyes. 

The  dry  sand  had  turned  the  corpse  en- 
trusted to  its  keeping  into  a  yellow-brown 
mummy.  I  told  Gunga  Dass  to  stand  off 
while  I  examined  it.  The  body — clad  in  an 
olive-green  hunting-suit  much  stained  and 
worn,  with  leather  pads  on  the  shoulders — 
was  that  of  a  man  between  thirty  and  forty, 
above  middle  height,  with  light,  sandy  hair 


84       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

long  mustache,  and  a  rough  unkempt  beard. 
The  left  canine  of  the  upper  jaw  was  missing, 
and  a  portion  of  the  lobe  of  the  right  ear  was 
gone.  On  the  second  finger  of  the  left  hand 
was  a  ring — a  shield-shaped  bloodstone  set  in 
gold,  with  a  monogram  that  might  have  been 
either  "  B.  K."  or  "  B.  L."  On  the  third 
finger  of  the  right  hand  was  a  silver  ring  in 
the  shape  of  a  coiled  cobra,  much  worn  and 
tarnished.  Gunga  Dass  deposited  a  handful 
of  trifles  he  had  picked  out  of  the  burrow  at 
my  feet,  and,  covering  the  face  of  the  body 
with  my  handkerchief,  I  turned  to  examine 
these.  I  give  the  full  list  in  the  hope  that  it 
may  lead  to  the  identification  of  the  unfortu- 
nate man  : — 

1.  Bowl  of  a  briarwood  pipe,  serrated  at  the 
edge  ;  much  worn  and  blackened  ;  bound  with 
string  at  the  screw. 

2.  Two  patent-lever  keys  ;  wards  of  both 
broken. 

3.  Tortoise-shell   handled  penknife,   silver 
or  nickel,  name-plate,  marked  with  monogram 
"  B.K." 

4.  Envelope,    post-mark     undecipherable, 
bearing    a    Victorian    stamp,    addressed    to 
"Miss    Mon— "   (rest  illegible)  —  "  ham  "— 
!<  nt." 

5.  Imitation  crocodile-skin  note-book  with 
pencil.      First    forty-five    pages    blank  ;    four 
and  a  half  illegible ;  fifteen  others  filled  with 
private  memoranda  relating  chiefly  to  three 
persons — a    Mrs.    L.    Singleton,    abbreviated 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  85 

several  times  to  "Lot  Single,"  "Mrs.  S. 
May,"  and  "  Garmison,"  referred  to  in  places 
as  "Jerry"  or  "Jack." 

6.  Handle  of  small-sized  hunting-knife. 
Blade  snapped  short.  Buck's  horn,  diamond 
cut,  with  swivel  and  ring  on  the  butt  ;  frag- 
ment of  cotton  cord  attached. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  I  inventoried 
all  these  things  on  the  spot  as  fully  as  1  have 
here  written  them  down.  The  note-book  first 
attracted  my  attention,  and  I  put  it  in  my 
pocket  with  a  view  to  studying  it  later  on. 
The  rest  of  the  articles  I  conveyed  to  my  bur- 
row for  safety's  sake,  and  there,  being  a 
methodical  man,  I  inventoried  them.  I  then 
returned  to  the  corpse  and  ordered  Gunga 
Dass  to  help  me  to  carry  it  out  to  the  river- 
front. While  we  were  engaged  in  this,  the 
exploded  shell  of  an  old  brown  cartridge 
dropped  out  of  one  of  the  pockets  and  rolled 
at  my  feet.  Gunga  Dass  had  not  seen  it ;  and 
I  fell  to  thinking  that  a  man  does  not  carry 
exploded  cartridge-cases,  especially  "browns," 
which  will  not  bear  loading  twice,  about  with 
him  when  shooting.  In  other  words,  that 
cartridge-case  had  been  fired  inside  the  crater, 
Consequently  there  must  be  a  gun  somewhere. 
I  was  on  the  verge  of  asking  Gunga  Dass,  but 
checked  myself,  knowing  that  he  would  lie. 
We  laid  the  body  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
quicksand  by  the  tussocks.  It  was  my  inten- 
tion to  push  it  out  and  let  it  be  swallowed  up 
— the  only  possible  mode  of  burial  that  I  could 


86       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

think  of.  I  ordered  Gunga  Dass  to  go 
away. 

Then  I  gingerly  put  the  corpse  out  on  the 
quicksand.  In  doing  so,  it  was  lying  face 
downward,  I  tore  the  frail  and  rotten  khaki 
shooting-coat  open,  disclosing  a  hideous  cavity 
in  the  back.  I  have  already  told  you  that  the 
dry  sand  had,  as  it  were,  mummified  the  body. 
A  moment's  glance  showed  that  the  gaping 
hole  had  been  caused  by  a  gun-shot  wound  ; 
the  gun  must  have  been  fired  with  the  muzzle 
almost  touching  the  back.  The  shooting-coat, 
being  intact,  had  been  drawn  over  the  body 
after  death,  which  must  have  been  instanta- 
neous. The  secret  of  the  poor  wretch's  death 
was  plain  to  me  in  a  flash.  Some  one  of  the 
crater,  presumably  Gunga  Dass,  must  have 
shot  him  with  his  own  gun — the  gun  that  fitted 
the  brown  cartridges.  He  had  never  attempted 
to  escape  in  the  face  of  the  rifle-fire  from  the 
boat. 

I  pushed  the  corpse  out  hastily,  and  saw  it 
sink  from  sight  literally  in  a  few  seconds.  I 
shuddered  as  I  watched.  In  a  dazed,  half- 
conscious  way  I  turned  to  peruse  the  note- 
book. A  stained  and  discolored  slip  of  paper 
had  been  inserted  between  the  binding  and 
the  back,  and  dropped  out  as  I  opened  the 
pages.  This  is  what  it  contained: — "Four 
out  from  crow-dump  :  three  left ;  nine  out;  two 
right;  three  back;  two  left ;  fourteen  out ;  two 
left;  seven  out ;  one  left ;  nine  back;  two  right ; 
six  back  ;  four  right ;  seven  back."  The  paper 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrovvbie  Jukes  87 

had  been  burnt  and  charred  at  the  edges. 
What  it  meant  I  could  not  understand.  I  sat 
down  on  the  dried  bents  turning  it  over  and 
over  between  my  fingers,  until  I  was  aware  of 
Gunga  Dass  standing  immediately  behind  me 
•with  glowing  eyes  and  outstretched  hands. 

"Have  you  got  it?"  he  panted.  "Will 
you  not  let  me  look  at  it  also  ?  I  swear  that 
I  will  return  it." 

"  Got  what  ?     Return  what  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  That  which  you  have  in  your  hands.  It 
will  help  us  both."  He  stretched  out  his 
long,  bird-like  talons,  trembling  with  eager- 
ness. 

"  I  could  never  find  it,"  he  continued. 
"  He  had  secreted  it  about  his  person. 
Therefore  I  shot  him,  but  nevertheless  I  was 
unable  to  obtain  it." 

Gunga  Dass  had  quite  forgotten  his  little 
fiction  about  the  rifle-bullet.  I  received  the 
information  perfectly  calmly.  Morality  is 
blunted  by  consorting  with  the  Dead  who  are 
alive. 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  raving  about  ? 
What  is  it  you  want  me  to  give  you  ? " 

"  The  piece  of  paper  in  the  note-book.  It 
will  help  us  both.  Oh,  you  fool !  You  fool ! 
Can  you  not  see  what  it  will  do  for  us  ?  Wo 
shall  escape  !  " 

His  voice  rose  almost  to  a  scream,  and  he 
danced  with  excitement  before  me.  I  own  I 
was  moved  at  the  chance  of  getting  away. 

"  Don't  skip  !     Explain  yourself.      Do  you 


438       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

mean  to  say  that  this  slip  of  paper  will  help 
us  ?  What  does  it  mean  ? " 

"  Read  it  aloud  !  Read  it  aloud !  I  beg 
and  I  pray  to  you  to  read  it  aloud." 

I  did  so.  Gunga  Dass  listened  delightedly, 
and  drew  an  irregular  line  in  the  sand  with 
his  fingers. 

"  See  now  !  It  was  the  length  of  his  gun- 
barrels  without  the  stock.  I  have  those 
barrels.  Four  gun-barrels  out  from  the  place 
where  I  caught  crows.  Straight  out ;  do  you 
follow  me  ?  Then  three  left — Ah  !  how  well 
I  remember  when  that  man  worked  it  out 
night  after  night.  Then  nine  out,  and  so  on. 
Out  is  always  straight  before  you  across  the 
quicksand.  He  told  me  so  before  I  killed  him. " 

"  But  if  you  knew  all  this  why  didn't  you 
get  out  before  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  know  it.  He  told  me  that  he 
was  working  it  out  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  and 
how  he  was  working  it  out  night  after  night 
when  the  boat  had  gone  away,  and  he  could 
get  out  near  the  quicksand  safely.  Then  he 
said  that  we  would  get  away  together.  But 
I  was  afraid  that  he  would  leave  me  behind 
one  night  when  he  had  worked  it  all  out,  and 
so  I  shot  him.  Besides,  it  is  not  advisable 
that  the  men  who  once  get  in  here  should 
escape.  Only  I,  and  /am  a  Brahmin." 

The  prospect  of  escape  had  brought  Gunga 
Dass's  caste  back  to  him.  He  stood  up, 
walked  about  and  gesticulated  violently. 
Eventually  I  managed  to  make  him  talk 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  89 

soberly,  and  he  told  me  how  this  Englishman 
had  spent  six  months  night  after  night  in  ex- 
ploring, inch  by  inch,  the  passage  across  the 
quicksand  ;  how  he  had  declared  it  to  be  sim- 
plicity itself  up  to  within  about  twenty  yards 
of  the  river  bank  after  turning  the  flank  of 
the  left  horn  of  the  horseshoe.  This  much  he 
had  evidently  not  completed  when  Gunga  Dass 
shot  him  with  his  own  gun. 

In  my  frenzy  of  .delight  at  the  possibilities 
of  escape  I  recollect  shaking  hands  effusivelv 
with  Gunga  Dass,  after  we  had  decided  that 
we  were  to  make  an  attempt  to  get  away  that 
very  night.  It  was  weary  work  waiting 
throughout  the  afternoon. 

About  ten  o'clock,  as  far  as  I  could  judge, 
when  the  Moon  had  just  risen  above  the  lip 
of  the  crater,  Gunga  Dass  made  a  move  for 
his  burrow  to  bring  out  the  gun-barrels 
whereby  to  measure  our  path.  All  the  other 
wretched  inhabitants  had  retired  to  their  lairs 
long  ago.  The  guardian  boat  drifted  down- 
stream some  hours  before,  and  we  were  ut- 
terly alone  by  the  crow-clump.  Gunga  Dass, 
while  carrying  the  gun-barrels,  let  slip  the 
piece  of  paper  which  was  to  be  our  guide.  I 
stooped  down  hastily  to  recover  it,  and,  as  I 
did  so,  I  was  aware  that  the  diabolical  Brah- 
min was  aiming  a  violent  blow  at  the  back  of 
my  head  with  the  gun-barrels.  It  was  too 
late  to  turn  round.  I  must  have  received  the 
blow  somewhere  on  the  nape  of  my  neck.  A 
hundred  thousand  fiery  stars  danced  before 


90       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

my  eyes,  and   I   fell  forward  senseless  at  the 
edge  of  the  quicksand. 

When  I  recovered  consciousness,  the  Moon 
was  going  down,  and  I  was  sensible  of  intol- 
erable pain  in  the  back  of  my  head.  Gunga 
Dass  had  disappeared  and  my  mouth  was  full 
of  blood.  I  lay  down  again  and  prayed  that 
I  might  die  without  more  ado.  Then  the  un- 
reasoning fury  which  I  have  before  mentioned 
laid  hold  upon  me,  and  I  staggered  inland 
towards  the  walls  of  the  crater.  It  seemed 
that  some  one  was  calling  to  me  in  a  whisper 
— "  Sahib  !  Sahib  !  Sahib  !  "  exactly  as  my 
bearer  used  to  call  me  in  the  mornings.  I 
fancied  that  I  was  delirious  until  a  handful  of 
sand  fell  at  my  feet.  Then  I  looked  up  and 
saw  a  head  peering  down  into  the  amphi- 
theater— the  head  of  Dunnoo,  my  dog-boy, 
who  attended  to  my  collies.  As  soon  as  he 
had  attracted  my  attention,  he  held  up  his 
hand  and  showed  a  rope.  I  motioned,  stag- 
gering to  and  fro  the  while,  that  he  should 
throw  it  down.  It  was  a  couple  of  leather 
punkah-ropes  knotted  together,  with  a  loop  at 
one  end.  I  slipped  the  loop  over  my  head 
and  under  my  arms ;  heard  Dunnoo  urge 
something  forward  ;  was  conscious  that  I  was 
being  dragged,  face  downward,  up  the  steep 
sand  slope,  and  the  next  i;. slant  found  myself 
choked  and  half  fainting  on  the  sand  hills 
overlooking  the  crater.  Dunnoo,  with  his  face 
ashy  gray  in  the  moonlight,  implored  me  not 
to  stay  but  to  get  back  to  my  tent  at  once. 


Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  91 

It  seems  that  he  had  tracked  Pornic's  foot- 
prints fourteen  miles  across  the  sands  to  the 
crater ;  had  returned  and  told  my  servants, 
who  flatly  refused  to  meddle  with  any  one, 
white  or  black,  once  fallen  into  the  hideous 
Village  of  the  Dead  ;  whereupon  Dunnoo  had 
taken  one  of  my  ponies  and  a  couple  of  pun- 
kah ropes,  returned  to  the  crater,  and  hauled 
me  out  as  I  have  described. 

To  cut  a  long  story  short,  Dunnoo  is  now 
my  personal  servant  on  a  gold  mohur  a  month 
— a  sum  which  I  still  think  far  too  little  for 
the  services  he  has  rendered.  Nothing  on 
earth  will  induce  me  to  go  near  that  devilish 
spot  again,  or  to  reveal  its  whereabouts  more 
clearly  than  I  have  done.  Of  Gunga  Dass  I 
have  never  found  a  trace,  nor  do  I  wish  to  do. 
My  sole  motive  in  giving  this  to  be  published 
is  the  hope  that  some  one  may  possibly 
identify,  from  the  details  and  the  inventory 
which  I  have  given  above,  the  corpse  of  the 
man  in  the  olive-green  hunting-suit 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING. 


"  Brother  to  a  Prince  and  fellow  to  a  beggar  if  he 
^e  found  worthy." 

THE  Law,  as  quoted,  lays  down  a  fair  con- 
duct of  life,  and  one  not  easy  to  follow.  I 
have  been  fellow  to  a  beggar  again  and  again 
under  circumstances  which  prevented  either 
of  us  finding  out  whether  the  other  was 
worthy.  I  have  still  to  be  brother  to  a  Prince, 
though  I  once  came  near  to  kinship  with  what 
might  have  been  a  veritable  King  and  was 
promised  the  reversion  of  a  Kingdom — army, 
law-courts,  revenue  and  policy  all  complete. 
But,  to-day,  I  greatly  fear  that  my  King  is 
dead,  and  if  I  want  a  crown  I  must  go  and 
hunt  it  for  myself. 

The  beginning  of  everything  was  in  a  rail- 
way train  upon  the  road  to  Mhow  from  Ajmir. 
There  had  been  a  Deficit  in  the  Budget,  which 
necessitated  traveling,  not  Second-class, 
which  is  only  half  as  dear  as  First-class,  but 
by  Intermediate,  which  is  very  awful  indeed. 
There  are  no  cushions  in  the  Intermediate- 
class,  and  the  population  are  either  Inter- 
mediate, which  is  Eurasian,  or  native,  which 
for  a  long  night  journey  is  nasty,  or  Loafer, 
which  is  amusing  though  intoxicated.  Inter- 
92 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King     93 

mediates  do  not  patronize  refreshment-rooms. 
They  carry  their  food  in  bundles  and  pots, 
and  buy  sweets  from  the  native  sweetmeat- 
sellers,  and  drink  the  roadside  water.  That 
is  why  in  the  hot  weather  Intermediates  are 
taken  out  of  the  carriages  dead,  and  in  all 
weathers  are  most  properly  looked  down  upon. 
My  particular  Intermediate  happened  to  be 
empty  till  I  reached  Nasirabad,  when  a  huge 
gentleman  in  shirt-sleeves  entered  and  follow- 
ing the  custom  of  Intermediates,  passed  the 
time  of  day.  He  was  a  wanderer  and  a  vaga- 
bond like  myself,  but  with  an  educated  taste 
for  whisky.  He  told  tales  of  things  he  had 
seen  and  done,  of  out-of-the-way  corners  oi 
the  Empire  into  which  he  had  penetrated,  and 
of  adventures  in  which  he  risked  his  life  for  a 
few  days'  food.  "  If  India  was  filled  with 
men  like  you  and  me,  not  knowing  more  than 
the  crows  where  they'd  get  their  next  day's 
rations,  it  isn't  seventy  millions  of  revenue  the 
land  would  be  paying — it's  seven  hundred 
millions,"  said  he ;  and  as  I  looked  at  his 
mouth  and  chin  I  was  disposed  to  agree  with 
him.  We  talked  politics — the  politics  of 
Loaferdom  that  sees  things  from  the  underside 
where  the  lath  and  plaster  is  not  smoothed  off 
— and  we  talked  postal  arrangements  because 
my  friend  wanted  to  send  a  telegram  back 
from  the  next  station  to  Ajmir,  which  is  the 
turning-off  place  from  the  Bombay  to  the 
Mhow  line  as  you  travel  westward.  My  friend 
had  no  money  beyond  eight  annas  which  he 


94       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

wanted  for  dinner,  and  I  had  no  money  at  all, 
owing  to  the  hitch  in  the  Budget  before  men- 
tioned. Further,  I  was  going  into  a  wilderness 
where,  though  I  should  resume  touch  with  the 
Treasury,  there  were  no  telegraph  offices.  I 
was,  therefore,  unable  to  help  him  in  any  way. 

"  We  might  threaten  a  Station-master,  and 
make  him  send  a  wire  on  tick, "  said  my  friend, 
"  but  that'd  mean  inquiries  for  you  and  for 
me,  and  I've  got  my  hands  full  these  days. 
Did  you  say  you  are  traveling  back  along  this 
line  within  any  days  ?  " 

"  Within  ten,"  I  said. 

"  Can't  you  make  it  eight  ? "  said  he.  "Mine 
is  rather  urgent  business." 

"I  can  send  your  telegram  within  ten  days 
if  that  will  serve  you,"  I  said. 

"  I  couldn't  trust  the  wire  to  fetch  him  now 
I  think  of  it.  It's  this  way.  He  leaves  Delhi 
on  the  23d  for  Bombay.  That  means  he'll  be 
running  through  Ajmir  about  the  night  of  the 
23d." 

"  But  I'm  going  into  the  Indian  Desert,"  I 
explained. 

"Well  and  good,"  said  he.  "You'll  be 
changing  at  Marwar  Junction  to  get  into  Jodh- 
pore  territory — you  must  do  that  and  he'll  be 
coming  through  Marwar  junction  in  the  early 
morning  of  the  24th  by  the  Bombay  Mail. 
Can  you  be  at  Marwar  Junction  on  that  time  ? 
'Twon't  be  inconveniencing  you  because  I 
know  that  there's  precious  few  pickings  to  be 
got  out  of  these  Central  India  States — even 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King     95 

though  you  pretend  to  be  correspondent  of 
the  Backwoodsman." 

"  Have  you  ever  tried  that  trick  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Again  and  again,  but  the  Residents  find  you 
out,  and  then  you  get  escorted  to  the  Border 
before  you've  time  to  get  your  knife  into  them. 
But  about  my  friend  here.  I  must  give  him  a 
word  o'  mouth  to  tell  him  what's  come  to  me 
or  else  he  won't  know  where  to  go.  I  would 
take  it  more  than  kind  of  you  if  you  was  to 
come  out  of  Central  India  in  time  to  catch  him 
at  Marwar  Junction,  and  say  to  him  : — '  He 
has  gone  South  for  the  week.'  He'll  know 
what  that  means.  He's  a  big  man  with  a  red 
beard,  and  a  great  swell  he  is.  You'll  find  him 
sleeping  like  a  gentleman  with  all  his  luggage 
round  him  in  a  Second-class  compartment. 
But  don't  you  be  afraid.  Slip  down  the 
window,  and  say : — '  He  has  gone  South  for 
the  week,'  and  he'll  tumble.  It's  only  cutting 
your  time  of  stay  in  those  parts  by  two  days. 
I  ask  you  as  a  stranger — going  to  the  West," 
he  said  with  emphasis. 

"  Where  have  you  come  from  ?  "  said  I. 

"  From  the  East,"  said  he,  "  and  I  am  hop- 
ing that  you  will  give  him  the  message  on  the 
Square — for  the  sake  of  my  Mother  as  well  as 
your  own. " 

Englishmen  are  not  usually  softened  by  ap- 
peals to  the  memory  of  their  mothers,  but  for 
certain  reasons,  which  will  be  fully  apparent, 
I  saw  fit  to  agree. 

**  It's  more  than  a  little  matter,"  said  he, 


96       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

"  and  that's  why  I  ask  you  to  do  it — and  now 
I  know  that  I  can  depend  on  you  doing  it.  A 
Second-class  carriage  at  Marwar  Junction,  and 
a  red-haired  man  asleep  in  it.  You'll  be  sure 
to  remember.  I  get  out  at  the  next  station, 
and  I  must  hold  on  there  till  he  comes  01 
sends  me  what  I  want." 

"  I'll  give  the  message  if  I  catch  him,"  I 
said,  "  and  for  the  sake  of  your  Mother  as 
well  as  mine  I'll  give  you  a  word  of  advice. 
Don't  try  to  run  the  Central  India  States  just 
now  as  the  correspondent  of  the  Backwoods- 
man. There's  a  real  one  knocking  about 
here,  and  it  might  lead  to  trouble." 

"Thank  you,"  said  he  simply,  "and  when 
will  the  swine  be  gone  ?  I  can't  starve  be- 
cause  he's  ruining  my  work.  I  wanted  to  get 
hold  of  the  Degumber  Rajah  down  here  about 
his  father's  widow,  and  give  him  a  jump." 

"What  did  he  do  to  his  father's  widow, 
then  ? " 

"  Filled  her  up  with  red  pepper  and  slip- 
pered her  to  death  as  she  hung  from  a  beam. 
I  found  that  out  myself  and  I'm  the  only  man 
that  would  dare  going  into  the  State  to  get 
hush-money  for  it.  They'll  try  to  poison  me, 
same  as  they  did  in  Chortumna  when  I  went 
on  the  loot  there.  But  you'll  give  the  man  at 
Marwar  Junction  my  message  ?  " 

He  got  out  at  a  little  roadside  station,  and 
I  reflected.  I  had  heard,  more  than  once,  ot 
men  personating  correspondents  of  ne\vs 
papers  and  bleeding  small  Native  States  with 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King     97 

threats  of  exposure,  but  I  had  never  met  any 
of  the  caste  before.  They  lead  a  hard  life, 
and  generally  die  with  great  suddenness. 
The  Native  States  have  a  wholesome  horror 
of  English  newspapers,  which  may  throw  light 
on  their  peculiar  methods  of  government,  and 
do  their  best  to  choke  correspondents  with 
champagne,  or  drive  them  out  of  their  mind 
with  four-in-hand  barouches.  They  do  not 
understand  that  nobody  cares  a  straw  for  the 
internal  administration  of  Native  States  so 
long  as  oppression  and  crime  are  kept  within 
decent  limits,  and  the  ruler  is  not  drugged, 
drunk,  or  diseased  from  one  end  of  the  year 
to  the  other.  Native  States  were  created  by 
Providence  in  order  to  supply  picturesque 
scenery,  tigers,  and  tall-writing.  They  are 
the  dark  places  of  the  earth,  full  of  unimagin- 
able cruelty,  touching  the  Railway  and  the 
Telegraph  on  one  side,  and,  on  the  other,  the 
days  of  Harun-al-Raschid.  When  I  left  the 
train  I  did  business  with  divers  Kings,  and  in 
eight  days  passed  through  many  changes  of 
life.  Sometimes  I  wore  dress-clothes  and 
consorted  with  Princes  and  Politicals,  drink- 
ing from  crystal  and  eating  from  silver.  Some- 
times I  lay  out  upon  the  ground  and  devoured 
what  I  could  get,  from  a  plate  made  of  a  flap- 
jack, and  drank  the  running  water,  and  slept 
under  the  same  rug  as  my  servant-  It  was 
all  in  the  day's  work. 

Then  I  headed  for  the  Great  Indian  Desert 
upon  the  proper  date,  as  I  had  promised,  and 
7 


98       The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

the  night  Mail  set  me  down  at  Marwar  June- 
tion,  where  a  funny  little,  happy-go-lucky, 
native-managed  railway  runs  to  Jodhpore. 
The  Bombay  Mail  from  Delhi  makes  a  short 
halt  at  Marwar.  She  arrived  as  I  got  in,  and 
I  had  just  time  to  hurry  to  her  platform  and 
go  down  the  carriages.  There  was  only  one 
Second-class  on  the  train.  I  slipped  the  win- 
dow and  looked  down  upon  a  flaming  red 
beard,  half  covered  by  a  railway  rug.  That 
was  my  man,  fast  asleep,  and  I  dug  him 
gently  in  the  ribs.  He  woke  with  a  grunt  and 
J  saw  his  face  in  the  light  of  the  lamps.  It 
was  a  great  and  shining  face. 

"  Tickets  again  ?  "  said  he. 

"  No, "  said  I.  "  I  am  to  tell  you  that  he  is 
gone  South  for  the  week.  He  is  gone  South 
for  the  week  !  " 

The  train  had  begun  to  move  out.  The  red 
man  rubbed  his  eyes.  "  He  has  gone  South 
for  the  week,"  he  repeated.  "  Now  that's 
just  like  his  impidence.  Did  he  say  that  I 
was  to  give  you  anything? — 'Cause  I  won't." 

"  He  didn't,"  I  said  and  dropped  away,  and 
watched  the  red  lights  die  out  in  the  dark.  It 
was  horribly  cold  because  the  wind  was  blow- 
ing off  the  sands.  I  climbed  into  my  own 
train — not  an  Intermediate  Carriage  this  time 
— and  went  to  sleep. 

If  the  man  with  the  bea»tl  had  given  me  a 
rupee  I  should  have  kept  it  as  a  memento  of  a 
rather  curious  affair.  But  the  consciousness 
of  having  done  my  duty  was  my  only  reward. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King     99 

Later  on  I  reflected  that  two  gentlemen  like 
my  friends  could  not  do  any  good  if  they 
foregathered  and  personated  correspondents  of 
newspapers,  and  might,  if  they  "  stuck  up  " 
one  of  the  little  rat-trap  states  of  Central  India 
or  Southern  Rajputana,  get  themselves  into 
serious  difficulties.  I  therefore  took  some 
trouble  to  describe  them  as  accurately  as  I 
could  remember  to  people  who  would  be  in- 
terested in  deporting  them  :  and  succeeded, 
so  I  was  later  informed,  in  having  them  headed 
back  from  the  Degumber  borders. 

Then  I  became  respectable,  and  returned 
to  an  office  where  there  were  no  Kings  and 
no  incidents  except  the  daily  manufacture  of 
a  newspaper.  A  newspaper  office  seems  to 
attract  every  conceivable  sort  of  person,  to  the 
prejudice  of  discipline.  Zenana-mission  ladies 
arrive,  and  beg  that  the  Editor  will  instantly 
abandon  all  his  duties  to  describe  a  Christian 
prize-giving  in  a  back-slum  of  a  perfectly  inac- 
cessible village ;  Colonels  who  have  been 
overpassed  for  commands  sit  down  and  sketch 
the  outline  of  a  series  of  ten,  twelve,  or 
twenty-four  leading  articles  on  Seniority  versus 
Selection  ;  missionaries  wish  to  know  why 
they  have  not  been  permitted  to  escape  from 
their  regular  vehicles  of  abuse  and  swear  at  a 
brother-missionary  under  special  patronage  of 
the  editorial  We  ;  stranded  theatrical  com- 
panies troop  up  to  explain  that  they  cannot 
pay  for  their  advertisements,  but  on  their  re- 
turn from  New  Zealand  or  Tahiti  will  do  so 


ioo     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

with  interest ;  inventors  of  patent  punkah- 
pulling  machines,  carriage  couplings  and  un- 
breakable swords  and  axle-trees  call  with 
specifications  in  their  pockets  and  hours  at 
their  disposal ;  tea-companies  enter  and  elab- 
orate their  prospectuses  with  the  office  pens  ; 
secretaries  of  ball-committees  clamor  to  have 
the  glories  of  their  last  dance  more  fully  ex- 
pounded ;  strange  ladies  rustle  in  and  say  : — 
I  want  a  hundred  lady's  cards  printed  at  once ', 
please,"  which  is  manifestly  part  of  an  Editor's 
duty;  and  every  dissolute  ruffian  that  ever 
tramped  the  Grand  Trunk  Road  makes  it  his 
business  to  ask  for  employment  as  a  proof- 
reader. And,  all  the  time,  the  telephone-bell 
is  ringing  madly,  and  Kings  are  being  killed 
on  the  Continent,  and  Empires  are  saying — 
"You're  another,"  and  Mister  Gladstone  is 
calling  down  brimstone  upon  the  British 
Dominions,  and  the  little  black  copy-boys  are 
whining,  "  kaa-pi-chay-ha-yeh  "  (copy  wanted) 
like  tired  bees,  and  most  of  the  paper  is  as 
blank  as  Modrek's  shield. 

But  that  is  the  amusing  part  of  the  year. 
There  are  other  six  months  wherein  none  ever 
come  to  call,  and  the  thermometer  walks  inch 
by  inch  up  to  the  top  of  the  glass,  and  the 
office  is  darkened  to  just  above  reading-light, 
and  the  press  machines  are  red-hot  of  touch, 
and  nobody  writes  anything  but  accounts  of 
amusements  in  the  Hill-stations  or  obituary 
notices.  Then  the  telephone  becomes  a  tink- 
ling terror,  because  it  tells  you  of  the  sudden 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    101 

deaths  of  men  and  women  that  you  knew  in- 
timately, and  the  prickly-heat  covers  you  as 
with  a  garment,  and  you  sit  down  and  write  : 
— "  A  slight  increase  of  sickness  is  reported 
from  the  Khuda  Janta  Khan  District.  The 
outbreak  is  purely  sporadic  in  its  nature,  and, 
thanks  to  the  energetic  efforts  of  the  District 
authorities,  is  now  almost  at  an  end.  It  is, 
however,  with  deep  regret  we  record  the  death, 
etc." 

Then  the  sickness  really  breaks  out,  and 
the  less  recording  and  reporting  the  better 
for  the  peace  of  the  subscribers.  But  the 
Empires  and  the  Kings  continue  to  divert 
themselves  as  selfishly  as  before,  and  the 
Foreman  thinks  that  a  daily  paper  really 
ought  to  come  out  once  in  twenty-four  hours, 
and  all  the  people  at  the  Hill-stations  in  the 
middle  of  their  amusements  say : — "  Good 
gracious!  Why  can't  the  paper  be  spark- 
ling ?  I'm  sure  there's  plenty  going  on  up 
here." 

That  is  the  dark  half  of  the  moon,  and,  as 
the  advertisements  say,  "  must  be  experienced 
to  be  appreciated." 

It  was  in  that  season,  and  a  remarkably 
evil  season,  that  the  paper  began  running  the 
last  issue  of  the  week  on  Saturday  night, 
which  is  to  say  Sunday  morning,  after  the 
custom  of  a  London  paper.  This  was  a  great 
convenience,  for  immediately  after  the  paper 
was  put  to  bed,  the  dawn  would  lower  the 
thermometer  from  96°  to  almost  84°  for  half 


102     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

an  hour,  and  in  that  chill — you  have  no  idea 
how  cold  is  84°  on  the  grass  until  you  begin 
to  pray  for  it — a  very  tired  man  could  set  off 
to  sleep  ere  the  heat  roused  him. 

One  Saturday  night  it  was  my  pleasant 
duty  to  put  the  paper  to  bed  alone.  A  King 
or  courtier  or  a  courtesan  or  a  community  was 
going  to  die  or  get  a  new  Constitution,  or  do 
something  that  was  important  on  the  other 
side  of  the  world,  and  the  paper  was  to  be 
held  open  till  the  latest  possible  minute  in 
order  to  catch  the  telegram.  It  was  a  pitchy 
black  night,  as  stifling  as  a  June  night  can  be, 
and  the  loo,  the  red-hot  wind  from  the  west- 
ward, was  booming  among  the  tinder-dry 
trees  and  pretending-  that  the  rain  was  on  its 
heels.  Now  and  again  a  spot  of  almost  boil- 
ing water  would  fall  on  the  dust  with  the  flop 
of  a  frog,  but  all  our  weary  world  knew  that 
was  only  pretense.  It  was  a  shade  cooler  in 
the  press-room  than  the  office,  so  I  sat  there, 
while  the  type  ticked  and  clicked,  and  the 
night-jars  hooted  at  the  windows,  and  the  all 
but  naked  compositors  wiped  the  sweat  from 
their  foreheads  and  called  for  water.  The 
thing  that  was  keeping  us  back,  whatever  it 
was,  would  not  come  off,  though  the  loo 
dropped  and  the  last  type  was  set,  and  the 
whole  round  earth  stood  still  in  the  choking 
heat,  with  its  finger  on  its  lip,  to  wait  the 
event.  I  drowsed,  and  wondered  whether 
the  telegraph  was  a  blessing,  and  whether 
this  dying  man,  or  struggling  people,  was 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King     103 

aware  of  the  inconvenience  the  delay  was 
causing.  There  was  no  special  reason  beyond 
the  heat  and  worry  to  make  tension,  but,  as 
the  clock-hands  crept  up  to  three  o'clock  and 
the  machines  spun  their  fly-wheels  two  and 
three  times  to  see  that  all  was  in  order,  before 
I  said  the  word  that  would  set  them  off,  I 
could  have  shrieked  aloud. 

Then  the  roar  and  rattle  of  the  wheels 
shivered  the  quiet  into  little  bits.  I  rose  to 
go  away,  but  two  men  in  white  clothes  stood 
in  front  of  me.  The  first  one  said  : — "  It's 
him  !  "  The  second  said  :— "  So  it  is  !  "  And 
they  both  laughed  almost  as  loudly  as  the 
machinery  roared,  and  mopped  their  fore- 
heads. "  We  see  there  was  a  light  burning 
across  the  road  and  we  were  sleeping  in  that 
ditch  there  for  coolness,  and  I  said  to  my 
friend  here,  'The  office  is  open.  Let's  come 
along  and  speak  to  him  as  turned  us  back 
from  the  Degumber  State,"  said  the  smaller 
of  the  two.  He  was  the  man  I  had  met  in 
the  Mhow  train,  and  his  fellow  was  the  red- 
bearded  man  of  Marwar  Junction.  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  eyebrows  of  the  one  or  the 
beard  of  the  other. 

I  was  not  pleased,  because  I  wished  to  go 
to  sleep,  not  to  squabble  with  loafers.  "  What 
do  you  want  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Half  an  hour's  talk  with  you  cool  and 
comfortable,  in  the  office,"  said  the  red- 
bearded  man.  "  We'd  like  some  drink — the 
Contrack  doesn't  begin  yet,  Peachey,  so  you 


104     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

needn't  look  —  but  what  we  really  want  is  ad- 
vice. We  don't  want  money.  We  ask  you 
as  a  favor,  because  you  did  us  a  bad  turn 
about  Degumber." 

I  led  from  the  press-room  to  the  stifling 
office  with  the  maps  on  the  walls,  and  the 
red-haired  man  rubbed  his  hands.  "That's 
something  like,"  said  he.  "This  was  the 
proper  shop  to  come  to.  Now,  Sir,  let  me 
introduce  to  you  Brother  Peachey  Carnehan, 
that's  him,  and  Brother  Daniel  Dravot,  that 
is  me,  and  the  less  said  about  our  professions 
the  better,  for  we  have  been  most  things  in 
our  time.  Soldier,  sailor,  compositor,  pho- 
tographer, proof-reader,  street  -preacher,  and 
correspondents  of  the  Backwoodsman  when 
we  thought  the  paper  wanted  one.  Carne- 
han is  sober,  and  so  am  I.  Look  at  us  first 
and  see  that's  sure.  It  will  save  you  cutting 
into  my  talk.  We'll  take  one  of  your  cigars 
apiece,  and  you  shall  see  us  light." 

I  watched  the  test.  The  men  were  abso- 
lutely sober,  so  I  gave  them  each  a  tepid 


"Well  and  good,"  said  Carnehan  of  the 
eyebrows,  wiping  the  froth  from  his  mus- 
tache. "  Let  me  talk  now,  Dan.  We  have 
been  all  over  India,  mostly  on  foot.  We 
have  been  boiler-fitters,  engine-drivers,  petty 
contractors,  and  all  that,  and  we  have  de- 
cided that  India  isn't  big  enough  for  such 
as  us." 

They  certainly  were  too  big  for  the  office 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    105 

Dravot's  beard  seemed  to  fill  half  the  room 
and  Carnehan's  shoulders  the  other  half,  as 
they  sat  on  the  big  table.  Carnehan  contin- 
ued : — "  The  country  isn't  half  worked  out 
because  they  that  governs  it  won't  let  you 
touch  it.  They  spend  all  their  blessed  time 
in  governing  it,  and  you  can't  lift  a  spade, 
nor  chip  a  rock,  nor  look  for  oil,  nor  any- 
thing like  that  without  all  the  government 
saying — '  Leave  it  alone  and  let  us  govern.' 
Therefore,  such  as  it  is,  we  will  let  it  alone, 
and  go  away  to  some  other  place  where  a 
man  isn't  crowded  and  can  come  to  his  own. 
We  are  not  little  men,  and  there  is  nothing 
that  we  are  afraid  of  except  Drink,  and  we 
have  signed  a  Contrack  on  that.  Therefore, 
we  are  going  away  to  be  Kings." 

"  Kings  in  our  own  right,"  muttered 
Dravot. 

"  Yes,  of  course, "  I  said.  "  You've  been 
tramping  in  the  sun,  and  it's  a  very  warm 
night,  and  hadn't  you  better  sleep  over  the 
notion  ?  Come  to-morrow. " 

"Neither  drunk  nor  sunstruck, "  said 
Dravot.  "  We  have  slept  over  the  notion 
half  a  year,  and  require  to  see  Books  and 
Atlases,  and  we  have  decided  that  there  is 
only  one  place  now  in  the  world  that  two 
strong  men  can  Sar-a-zc/X/aofc.  They  call  it 
Kafiristan.  By  my  reckoning  it's  the  top 
right-hand  corner  of  Afghanistan,  not  more 
than  three  hundred  miles  from  Peshawar. 
They  have  two  and  thirty  heathen  idols 


TOO     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

there,  and  we'll  be  the  thirty-third.  It's  a 
mountaineous  country,  and  the  women  of  those 
parts  are  very  beautiful." 

"  But  that  is  provided  against  in  the  Con- 
track."  said  Carnehan.  "Neither  Women 
nor  Liqu-or,  Daniel." 

"'  And  that's  all  we  know,  except  that  no 
one  has  gone  there,  and  they  fight,  and  in  any 
place  where  they  fight  a  man  who  knows  how 
to  drill  men  can  always  be  a  King.  We  shall 
go  to  those  parts  and  say  to  any  King  we 
find — '  D'  you  want  to  vanquish  your  foes?' 
and  we  will  show  him  how  to  drill  men  ;  for 
that  we  know  better  than  anything  else.  Then 
we  will  subvert  that  King  and  seize  his 
throne  and  establish  a  Dy-nasty." 

"  You'll  be  cut  to  pieces  before  you're 
fifty  miles  across  the  Border,"  I  said.  "  You 
have  to  travel  through  Afghanistan  to  get  to 
that  country.  It's  one  mass  of  mountains 
and  peaks  and  glaciers,  and  no  Englishman 
has  been  through  it.  The  people  are  utter 
brutes,  and  even  if  you  reached  them  you 
couldn't  do  anything." 

"  That's  more  like,"  said  Carnehan.  "  If 
you  could  think  us  a  little  more  mad  we 
would  be  more  pleased.  We  have  come  to 
you  to  know  about  this  country,  to  read  a 
book  about  it,  and  to  be  shown  maps.  We 
want  you  to  tell  us  that  we  are  fools  and  to 
show  us  your  books."  He  turned  to  the 
book-cases. 

"  Are  you  at  all  in  earnest  ?  "  I  said. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    107 

"  A  little,"  said  Dravot  sweetly.  "  As  big 
a  map  as  you  have  got,  even  if  it's  all  blank 
\rhere  Kafiristan  is,  and  any  books  you've 
got.  We  can  read,  though  we  aren't  very 
educated." 

I  uncased  the  big  thirty-two-miles- to- the- 
inch  map  of  India,  and  two  smaller  Frontier 
maps,  hauled  down  volume  INF-KAN  of 
the  Encyclopedia  Britannica,  and  the  men 
consulted  them. 

"  See  here !  "  said  Dravot,  his  thumb  on 
the  map.  "  Up  to  Jagdallak,  Peachey  and  me 
know  the  road.  We  was  there  with  Roberts's 
Army.  We'll  have  to  turn  off  to  the  right  at 
Jagdallak  through  Laghmann  territory.  Then 
we  get  among  the  hills — fourteen  thousand 
feet — fifteen  thousand — it  will  be  cold  work 
there,  but  it  don't  look  very  far  on  the 
map." 

I  handed  him  Wood  on  the  Sources  of  the 
Oxus.  Carnehan  was  deep  in  the  Ency- 
clopedia. 

"  They're  a  mixed  lot,"  said  Dravot  reflec- 
tively ;  "  and  it  won't  help  us  to  know  the 
names  of  their  tribes.  The  more  tribes  the 
more  they'll  fight,  and  the  better  for  us. 
From  Jagdallak  to  Ashang.  H'mm  !  " 

"  But  all  the  information  about  the  country 
is  as  sketchy  and  inaccurate  as  can  be,"  I 
protested.  "  No  one  knows  anything  about 
it  really.  Here's  the  file  of  the  United  Ser- 
vices' Institute.  Read  what  Bellew  says." 

"  Blow   Bellew  !  "   said   Carnehan.     "  Dan, 


io8     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

they're  an  all-fired  lot  of  heathens,  but  this 
book  here  says  they  think  they're  related  to 
us  English." 

I  smoked  while  the  men  pored  over  Raverty, 
Wood,  the  maps  and  the  Encyclop&dia . 

"  There  is  no  use  your  waiting,"  said  Dravot 
politely.  "  It's  about  four  o'clock  now.  We'll 
go  before  six  o'clock  if  you  want  to  sleep,  and 
we  won't  steal  any  of  the  papers.  Don't  you 
sit  up.  We're  two  harmless  lunatics,  and  if 
you  come,  to-morrow  evening,  down  to  the 
Serai  we'll  say  good-by  to  you. " 

"  You  are  two  fools,"  I  answered.  "  You'll 
be  turned  back  at  the  Frontier  or  cut  up  the 
minute  you  set  foot  in  Afghanistan.  Do  you 
want  any  money  or  a  recommendation  down- 
country  ?  I  can  help  you  to  the  chance  of 
work  next  week." 

"  Next  week  we  shall  be  hard  at  work  our- 
selves, thank  you,"  said  Dravot.  "  It  isn't 
so  easy  being  a  King  as  it  looks.  When  we've 
got  our  Kingdom  in  going  order  we'll  let  you 
know,  and  you  can  come  up  and  help  us  to 
govern  it." 

"Would  two  lunatics  make  a  Contrack  like 
that?"  said  Carnehan,  with  subdued  pride, 
showing  me  a  greasy  half-sheet  of  note-paper 
on  which  was  written  the  following.  I  copied 
it,  then  and  there,  as  a  curiosity : — • 

This  Contract  between  me  and  you  per  suing 
witnesseth  in  the  name  of  God — Amen  and  s& 
forth. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    109 

(  One)  That  me  and  you  will  settle  this  matter 
together :  i.  e. ,  to  be  Kings  of  Kafir  - 
istan. 

(Two)      That  you  and  me  will  not,  while  this 
matter  is  being  settled,  look  at  any 
Liquor,   nor   any     Woman   black, 
white  or  brown,  so  as  to  get  mixed 
up  with  one  or  the  other  harmful. 
(Three)     That  we  conduct  ourselves  with  dignity 
and  discretion,  and  if  one  of  us  gets 
into  trottble  the  other  will  stay  by 
him. 
Signed  by  you  and  me  this  day. 

Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan. 

Daniel  Dravot. 

Both  Gentlemen  at  Lagre. 

"There  was  no  need  for  the  last  article," 
said  Carnehan,  blushing  modestly  ;  "  but  it 
looks  regular.  Now  you  know  the  sort  of 
men  that  loafers  are — we  are  loafers,  Dan, 
until  we  get  out  of  India — and  do  you  think 
that  we  would  sign  a  Contrack  like  that  unless 
we  was  in  earnest?  We  have  kept  away  from 
the  two  things  that  make  life  worth  having." 

"  You  won't  enjoy  your  lives  much  longer 
if  you  are  going  to  try  this  idiotic  adventure. 
Don't  set  the  office  on  fire,"  I  said,  "and  go 
away  before  nine  o'clock." 

I  left  them  still  poring  over  the  maps  and 
making  notes  on  the  back  of  the  "  Contrack." 
M  Be  sure  to  come  down  to  the  Serai  to-mor- 
row," were  their  parting  words. 


no     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

The  Kumharsen  Serai  is  the  great  four- 
square sink  of  humanity  where  the  strings  of 
camels  and  horses  from  the  North  load  and 
unload.  All  the  nationalities  of  Central  Asia 
may  be  found  there,  and  most  of  the  folk  of 
India  proper.  Balkh  and  Bokhara  there  meet 
Bengal  and  Bombay,  and  try  to  draw  eye- 
teeth.  You  can  buy  ponies,  turquoises,  Per- 
sian pussy-cats,  saddle-bags,  fat-tailed  sheep 
and  musk  in  the  Kumharsen  Serai,  and  get 
many  strange  things  for  nothing.  In  the 
afternoon  I  went  down  there  to  see  whether 
my  friends  intended  to  keep  their  word  or 
were  lying  about  drunk. 

A  priest  attired  in  fragments  of  ribbons  and 
rags  stalked  up  to  me,  gravely  twisting  a 
child's  paper  whirligig.  Behind  him  was  his 
servant  bending  under  the  load  of  a  crate  of 
mud  toys.  The  two  were  loading  up  two 
camels,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  Serai 
watched  them  with  shrieks  of  laughter. 

"The  priest  is  mad,"  said  a  horse-dealer 
to  me.  "  He  is  going  up  to  Kabul  to  sell 
.toys  to  the  Amir.  He  will  either  be  raised  to 
honor  or  have  his  head  cut  off.  He  came  in 
here  this  morning  and  has  been  behaving 
madly  ever  since." 

"The  witless  are  under  the  protection  of 
God,"  stammered  a  flat-cheeked  Usberg  in 
broken  Hindi.  "  They  foretell  future  events." 

"  Would  they  could  have  foretold  that  my 
caravan  would  have  been  cut  up  by  the  Shin- 
waris  almost  within  shadow  of  the  Pass  !  * 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    in 

grunted  the  Eusufzai  agent  of  a  Rajputana 
trading-house  whose  goods  had  been  felo- 
niously diverted  into  the  hands  of  other  rob- 
bers just  across  the  Border,  and  whose  mis- 
fortunes were  the  laughing-stock  of  the 
bazar.  "  Ohe',  priest,  whence  come  you  and 
whither  do  you  go  ?" 

"  From  Roum  have  I  come,"  shouted  the 
priest,  waving  his  whirligig  ;  "  from  Roum, 
blown  by  the  breath  of  a  hundred  devils 
across  the  sea  !  O  thieves,  robbers,  liars,  the 
blessing  of  Pir  Khan  on  pigs,  dogs,  and  per- 
jurers !  Who  will  take  the  Protected  of  God 
to  the  North  to  sell  charms  that  are  never 
still  to  the  Amir?  The  camels  shall  not  gall, 
the  sons  shall  not  fall  sick,  and  the  wives 
shall  remain  faithful  while  they  are  away,  of 
the  men  who  give  me  place  in  their  caravan, 
Who  will  assist  me  to  slipper  the  King  of  the 
Roos  with  a  golden  slipper  with  a  silver  heel  ? 
The  protection  of  Pir  Khan  be  upon  his  la- 
bors !  "  He  spread  out  the  skirts  of  his  ga- 
berdine and  pirouetted  between  the  lines  of 
tethered  horses. 

"There  starts  a  caravan  from  Peshawar  to 
Kabul  in  twenty  days,  Huzrut"  said  the 
Eusufzai  trader.  "My  camels  go  therewith, 
Do  thou  also  go  and  bring  us  good-luck." 

"  I  will  go  even  now  !  "  shouted  the  priest, 
"  I  will  depart  upon  my  winged  camels,  and 
be  at  Peshawar  in  a  day  !  Ho  I  Hazar  Mir 
Khan,"  he  yelled  to  his  servant,  "  drive  out 
the  camels,  but  let  me  first  mount  my  own.'* 


ii2     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

He  leaped  on  the  back  of  his  beast  as  it 
knelt,  and,  turning  round  to  me,  cried: — 
"  Come  thou  also,  Sahib,  a  little  along  the  road, 
and  I  will  sell  thee  a  charm — an  amulet  that 
ghall  make  thee  King  of  Kafiristan." 

Then  the  light  broke  upon  me,  and  I  fol- 
lowed the  two  camels  out  of  the  Serai,  till  we 
reached  open  road  and  the  priest  halted. 

"  What  d'  you  think  o'  that  ?  "  said  he  in 
English.  "  Carnehan  can't  talk  their  patter, 
so  I've  made  him  my  servant.  He  makes  a 
handsome  servant.  'Tisn't  for  nothing  that 
I've  been  knocking  about  the  country  for 
fourteen  years.  Didn't  I  do  that  talk  neat  ? 
We'll  hitch  on  to  a  caravan  at  Peshawar  till 
we  get  to  Jagdallak,  and  then  we'll  see  if  we 
can  get  donkeys  for  our  camels,  and  strike 
into  Kafiristan.  Whirligigs  for  the  Amir, 
O  Lor  !  Put  your  hand  under  the  camel-bags 
and  tell  me  what  you  feel." 

I  felt  the  butt  of  a  Martini,  and  another  and 
another. 

"Twenty  of 'em,"  said  Dravot  placidly. 
"  Twenty  of  'em,  and  ammunition  to  corre- 
spond, under  the  whirligigs  and  the  mud 
dolls." 

"  Heaven  help  you  if  you  are  caught  with 
those  things  !"  I  said.  "'A  Martini  is  worth 
her  weight  in  silver  among  the  Pathans." 

"  Fifteen  hundred  rupees  of  capital — every 
rupee  we  could  beg,  borrow,  or  steal — are  in- 
vested on  these  two  camels,"  said  Dravot. 
We  won't  get  caught.  We're  going  through 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    113 

the  Khaiber  with  a  regular  caravan.     Who'd 
touch  a  poor  mad  priest  ?  " 

"  Have  you  got  everything  you  want  ?  "  I 
asked,  overcome  with  astonishment. 

"  Not  yet,  but  we  shall  soon.  Give  me  a 
memento  of  your  kindness,  Brother.  You  did 
me  a  service  yesterday,  and  that  time  in  Mar- 
war.  Half  my  Kingdom  shall  you  have,  as 
the  saying  is."  I  slipped  a  small  charm  com- 
pass from  my  watch-chain  and  handed  it  up  to 
the  priest. 

"  Good-by,"  said  Dravot,  giving  me  his  hand 
cautiously.  "  It's  the  last  time  we'll  shake 
hands  with  an  Englishman  these  many  days. 
Shake  hands  with  him,  Carnehan,"  he  cried, 
as  the  second  camel  passed  me. 

Carnehan  leaned  down    and  shook  hands. 

Then  the  camels  passed  away  along  the 
dusty  road,  and  I  was  left  alone  to  wonder. 
My  eye  could  detect  no  failure  in  the  dis- 
guises. The  scene  in  the  Serai  attested  that 
they  were  complete  to  the  native  mind. 
There  was  just  the  chance,  therefore,  that 
Carnehan  and  Dravot  would  be  able  to  wan- 
der through  Afghanistan  without  detection. 
But,  beyond,  they  would  find  death,  certain 
and  awful  death. 

Ten  days  later  a  native  friend  of  mine, 
giving- me  the  news  of  the  day  from  Peshawar, 
wound  up  his  letter  with  : — "  There  has  been 
much  laughter  here  on  account  of  a  certain 
mad  priest  who  is  going  in  his  estimation  to 
sell  petty  gauds  and  insignificant  trinkets 
8 


ii4     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

which  he  ascribes  as  great  charms  to  H.  H, 
the  Amir  of  Bokhara.  He  passed  through 
Peshawar  and  associated  himself  to  the 
Second  Summer  caravan  that  goes  to  Kabul. 
The  merchants  are  pleased  because  through 
superstition  they  imagine  that  such  mad  fel- 
lows bring  good-fortune." 

The  two,  then,  were  beyond  the  Border.  I 
would  have  prayed  for  them,  but,  that  night, 
a  real  King  died  in  Europe,  and  demanded  an 
obituary  notice. 

The  wheel  of  the  world  swings  through  the 
same  phases  again  and  again.  Summer 
passed  and  winter  thereafter,  and  came  and 
passed  again.  The  daily  paper  continued  and 
I  with  it,  and  upon  the  third  summer  there  fell 
a  hot  night,  a  night-issue,  and  a  strained  wait- 
ing for  something-  to  be  telegraphed  from  the 
other  side  of  the  world,  exactly  as  had  hap- 
pened before.  A  few  great  men  had  died  in 
the  past  two  years,  the  machines  worked  with 
more  clatter,  and  some  of  the  trees  in  the 
Office  garden  were  a  few  feet  taller.  But  that 
was  all  the  difference. 

I  passed  over  to  the  press-room,  and  went 
through  just  such  a  scene  as  I  have  already 
described.  The  nervous  tension  was  stronger 
than  it  had  been  two  years  before,  and  I  felt 
the  heat  more  acutely.  At  three  o'clock  I 
cried,  "  Print  off,"  and  turned  to  go,  when 
there  crept  to  my  chair  what  was  left  of  a 
man.  He  was  bent  into  a  circle,  his  head  was 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    115 

sunk  between  his  shoulders,  and  he  moved  his 
feet  one  over  the  other  like  a  bear.  I  could 
hardly  see  whether  he  walked  or  crawled— 
this  rag-wrapped,  whining  cripple  who  ad 
dressed  me  by  name,  crying  that  he  was  come 
back.  "  Can  you  give  me  a  drink  ?  "  he  whim- 
pered. "  For  the  Lord's  sake,  give  me  a 
drink  I " 

I  went  back  to  the  office,  the  man  following 
with  groans  of  pain,  and  I  turned  up  the  lamp, 

"  Don't  you  krow  me  ? "  he  gasped,  drop- 
ping into  a  chair,  and  he  turned  his  drawn 
face,  surmounted  by  a  shock  of  gray  hair,  to 
the  light. 

I  looked  at  him  intently.  Once  before  had 
I  seen  eyebrows  that  met  over  the  nose  in  an 
inch-broad  black  band,  but  for  the  life  of  me 
I  could  not  tell  where. 

"  I  don't  know  you,"  I  said,  handing  him 
the  whisky.  "  What  can  I  do  for  you  ? " 

He  took  a  gulp  of  the  spirit  raw,  and  shiv- 
ered in  spite  of  the  suffocating  heat. 

"I've  come  back,"  he  repeated;  "and  I 
was  the  King  of  Kafiristan — me  and  Dravot 
— crowned  Kings  we  was  !  In  this  office 
we  settled  it — you  setting  there  and  giving  us 
the  books.  I  am  Peachey — Peachey  Talia- 
ferro  Carnehan,  and  you've  been  setting  here 
ever  since — O  Lord  !  " 

I  was  more  than  a  little  astonished,  and 
expressed  my  feelings  accordingly. 

"  It's  true,"  said  Carnehan,  with  a  dry 
cackle,  nursing  his  feet,  which  were  wrapped 


n6     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

in  rags.  "  True  as  gospel.  Kings  we  were, 
with  crowns  upon  our  heads — me  and  Dravot 
— poor  Dan — oh,  poor,  poor  Dan,  that  would 
never  take  advice,  not  though  I  begged  of 
him ! " 

"Take  the  whisky,"  I  said,  "and  take 
your  own  time.  Tell  me  all  you  can  recollect 
of  everything  from  beginning  to  end.  You 
got  across  the  border  on  your  camels,  Dravot 
dressed  as  a  mad  priest  and  you  his  servant. 
Do  you  remember  that  ? " 

"  I  ain't  mad — yet,  but  I  shall  be  that  way 
soon.  Of  course  I  remember.  Keep  looking 
at  me,  or  maybe  my  words  will  go  all  to 
pieces.  Keep  looking  at  me  in  my  eyes  and 
don't  say  anything." 

I  leaned  forward  and  looked  into  his  face 
as  steadily  as  I  could.  He  dropped  one  hand 
upon  the  table  and  I  grasped  it  by  the  wrist. 
It  was  twisted  like  a  bird's  claw,  and  upon 
the  back  was  a  ragged,  red,  diamond-shaped 
scar. 

"  No,  don't  look  there.  Look  at  me"  said 
Carnehan. 

"  That  comes  afterwards,  but  for  the  Lord's 
sake  don't  distrack  me.  We  left  with  that 
caravan,  me  and  Dravot  playing  all  sorts  of 
antics  to  amuse  the  people  we  were  with. 
Dravot  used  to  make  us  laugh  in  the  evenings 
when  all  the  people  was  cooking  their  dinners 
— cooking  their  dinners,  and  ....  what  did 
they  do  then  ?  They  lit  little  fires  with  sparks 
that  went  into  Dravot's  beard,  and  we  all 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    117 

laughed — fit  to  die.  Little  red  fires  they  was, 
going  into  Dravot's  big  red  beard — so  funny." 
His  eyes  left  mine  and  he  smiled  foolishly. 

"  You  went  as  far  as  Jagdallak  with  that 
caravan,"  I  said  at  a  venture,  "  after  you  had 
lit  those  fires.  To  Jagdallak,  where  you 
turned  off  to  try  to  get  into  Kafiristan." 

"  No,  we  didn't  neither.  What  are  you 
talking  about  ?  We  turned  off  before  J agdallak, 
because  we  heard  the  roads  was  good.  But 
they  wasn't  good  enough  for  our  two  camels — 
mine  and  Dravot's.  When  we  left  the  caravan, 
Dravot  took  off  all  his  clothes  and  mine  too, 
and  said  we  would  be  heathen,  because  the 
Kafirs  didn't  allow  Mohammedans  to  talk  to 
them.  So  we  dressed  betwixt  and  between, 
and  such  a  sight  as  Daniel  Dravot  I  never 
saw  yet  nor  expect  to  see  again.  He  burned 
half  his  beard,  and  slung  a  sheepskin  over  his 
shoulder,  and  shaved  his  head  into  patterns. 
He  shaved  mine,  too,  and  made  me  wear 
outrageous  things  to  look  like  a  heathen. 
That  was  in  a  most  mountaineous  country,  and 
our  camels  couldn't  go  along  any  more  because 
of  the  mountains.  They  were  tall  and  black, 
and  coming  home  I  saw  them  fight  like  wild 
goats — there  are  lots  of  goats  in  Kafiristan. 
And  these  mountains,  they  never  keep  still,  no 
more  than  the  goats.  Always  fighting  they  are, 
and  don't  let  you  sleep  at  night." 

"  Take  some  more  whisky,"  I  said  very 
slowly.  "  What  did  you  and  Daniel  Dravot 
do  when  the  camels  could  2:0  no  further 


n8     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

because  of  the  rough  roads  that  led  into 
Kafiristan  ? " 

"  What  did  which  do  ?  There  was  a  party 
called  Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan  that  was 
with  Dravot.  Shall  I  tell  you  about  him  ? 
Ht  died  out  there  in  the  cold.  Slap  from  the 
bridge  fell  old  Peachey,  turning  and  twisting 
in  the  air  like  a  penny  whirligig  that  you  can 
sell  to  the  Amir. — No  ;  they  was  two  for  three 
ha'pence,  those  whirligigs,  or  I  am  much 
mistaken  and  woful  sore.  And  then  these 
camels  were  no  use,  and  Peachey  said  to 
Dravot — '  For  the  Lord's  sake,  let's  get  out 
of  this  before  our  heads  are  chopped  off,'  and 
with  that  they  killed  the  camels  all  among 
the  mountains,  not  having  anything  in  partic- 
ular to  eat,  but  first  they  took  off  the  boxes 
with  the  guns  and  the  ammunition,  till  two 
men  came  along  driving  four  mules.  Dravot 
up  and  dances  in  front  of  them,  singing, — 
'  Sell  me  four  mules/  Says  the  first  man, — 
'  If  you  are  rich  enough  to  buy,  you  are  rich 
enough  to  rob ; '  but  before  ever  he  could  put 
his  hand  to  his  knife,  Dravot  breaks  his  neck 
over  his  knee,  and  the  other  party  runs  away. 
So  Carnehan  loaded  the  mules  with  the  rifles 
that  was  taken  off  the  camels,  and  together 
we  starts  forward  into  those  bitter  cold 
mountaineous  parts,  and  never  a  road  broader 
than  the  back  of  your  hand." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  while  I  asked  him 
if  he  could  remember  the  nature  of  the  coun- 
try through  which  he  had  journeyed. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    119 

"  I  am  telling  you  as  straight  as  I  can,  but 
jiy  head  isn't  as  good  as  it  might  be.  They 
drove  nails  through  it  to  make  me  hear  better 
now  Dravot  died.  The  country  was  moun- 
iaineous  and  the  mules  were  most  contrary,  and 
ihe  inhabitants  was  dispersed  and  solitary. 
They  went  up  and  up,  and  down  and  down, 
and  that  other  party,  Carnehan,  was  implor- 
ing of  Dravot  not  to  sing  and  whistle  so  loud, 
for  fear  of  bringing  down  the  tremenjus  ava- 
lanches. But  Dravot  says  that  if  a  King 
couldn't  sing  it  wasn't  worth  being  King,  and 
whacked  the  mules  over  the  rump,  and  never 
took  no  heed  for  ten  cold  days.  We  came  to 
a  big  level  valley  all  among  the  mountains, 
and  the  mules  were  near  dead,  so  we  killed 
them,  not  having  anything  in  special  for  them 
or  us  to  eat  We  sat  upon  the  boxes,  and 
played  odd  and  even  with  the  cartridges  that 
was  jolted  out. 

"Then  ten  men  with  bows  and  arrows  ran 
down  that  valley,  chasing  twenty  men  with 
bows  and  arrows,  and  the  row  was  tremenjus. 
They  was  fair  men — fairer  than  you  or  me 
— with  yellow  hair  and  remarkable  well  built. 
Says  Dravot,  unpacking  the  guns — '  This  is 
the  beginning  of  the  business.  We'll  fight  for 
the  ten  men,'  and  with  that  he  fires  two  rifles 
at  the  twenty  men,  and  drops  one  of  them  at 
two  hundred  yards  from  the  rock  where  we 
was  sitting.  The  other  men  began  to  run,  but 
Carnehan  and  Dravot  sits  on  the  boxes  pick- 
ing them  off  at  all  ranges,  up  and  down  the 


120     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

valley.  Then  we  goes  up  to  the  ten  men  that 
had  run  across  the  snow  too,  and  they  fires  a 
footy  little  arrow  at  us.  Dravot  he  shoots 
above  their  heads  and  they  all  falls  down  flat. 
Then  he  walks  over  them  and  kicks  them,  and 
then  he  lifts  them  up  and  shakes  hands  all 
round  to  make  them  friendly  like.  He  calls 
them  and  gives  them  the  boxes  to  carry,  and 
waves  his  hand  for  all  the  world  as  though  he 
was  King  already.  They  takes  the  boxes  and 
him  across  the  valley  and  up  the  hill  into  a 
pine  wood  on  the  top,  where  there  was  half  a 
dozen  big  stone  idols.  Dravot  he  goes  to  the 
biggest — a  fellow  they  call  Imbra — and  lays  a 
rifle  and  a  cartridge  at  his  feet,  rubbing  his 
nose  respectful  with  his  own  nose,  patting  him 
on  the  head,  and  saluting  in  front  of  it.  He 
turns  round  to  the  men  and  nods  his  head, 
and  says, — '  That's  all  right.  I'm  in  the  know 
too,  and  all  these  old  jim-jams  are  my  friends.' 
Then  he  opens  his  mouth  and  points  down  it, 
and  when  the  first  man  brings  him  food,  he 
says — '  No ; '  and  when  the  second  man  brings 
him  food,  he  says — '  No  ; '  but  when  one  of 
the  old  priests  and  the  boss  of  the  village 
brings  him  food,  he  says  —  'Yes;'  very 
haughty,  and  eats  it  slow.  That  was  how  we 
came  to  our  first  village,  without  any  trouble, 
just  as  though  we  had  tumbled  from  the  skies. 
But  we  tumbled  from  one  of  those  damned 
rope-bridges,  you  see,  and  you  couldn't  expect 
a  man  to  laugh  much  after  that." 

"  Take  some  more  whisky  and  go  on,"  I 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    121 

said.     "That  was  the  first  village  you  came 
into.     How  did  you  get  to  be  King  ?  " 

"  I  wasn't  King,"  said  Carnehan.  "  Dravot 
he  was  the  King,  and  a  handsome  man  he 
looked  with  the  gold  crown  on  his  head  and 
all.  Him  and  the  other  party  stayed  in  that 
village,  and  every  morning  Dravot  sat  by  the 
side  of  old  Imbra,  and  the  people  came  and 
worshiped.  That  was  Dravot's  order.  Then 
a  lot  of  men  came  into  the  valley,  and  Carne- 
han and  Dravot  picks  them  off  with  the  rifles 
before  they  knew  where  they  was,  and  runs 
down  into  the  valley  and  up  again  the  other 
side,  and  finds  another  village,  same  as  the 
first  one,  and  the  people  all  falls  down  flat  on 
their  faces  and  Dravot  says, — '  Now  what  is 
the  trouble  between  you  two  villages  ? '  and 
the  people  points  to  a  woman,  as  fair  as  you 
or  me,  that  was  carried  off,  and  Dravot  takes 
her  back  to  the  first  village  and  counts  up  the 
dead — eight  there  was.  For  each  dead  man 
Dravot  pours  a  little  milk  on  the  ground  and 
waves  his  arms  like  a  whirligig  and  '  That's 
all  right,'  says  he.  Then  he  and  Carnehan 
takes  the  big  boss  of  each  village  by  the  arm 
and  walks  them  down  into  the  valley,  and 
shows  them  how  to  scratch  a  line  with  a  spear 
right  down  the  valley,  and  gives  each  a  sod 
of  turf  from  both  sides  o'  the  line.  Then  all 
the  people  comes  down  and  shouts  like  the 
devil  and  all,  and  Dravot  says, — '  Go  and  dig 
the  land,  and  be  fruitful  and  multiply,'  which 
they  did,  though  they  didn't  understand.  Then 


122     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

we  asks  the  names  of  things  in  their  lingo^ 
bread  and  water  and  fire  and  idols  and  such, 
and  Dravot  leads  the  priest  of  each  village  up 
to  the  idol,  and  says  he  must  sit  there  and 
judge  the  people,  and  if  anything  goes  wrong 
he  is  to  be  shot. 

"Next  week  they  was  all  turning  up  the 
land  in  the  valley  as  quiet  as  bees  and  much 
prettier,  and  the  priests  heard  all  the  com- 
plaints and  told  Dravot  in  dumb  show  what 
it  was  about.  '  That's  just  the  beginning,' 
says  Dravot.  '  They  think  we're  Gods.'  He 
and  Carnehan  picks  out  twenty  good  men  and 
shows  them  how  to  click  off  a  rifle,  and  form 
fours,  and  advance  in  line,  and  they  was  very 
pleased  to  do  so,  and  clever  to  see  the  hang  o£ 
it.  Then  he  takes  out  his  pipe  and  his  baccy- 
pouch  and  leaves  one  at  one  village  and  one 
at  the  other,  and  off  we  two  goes  to  see  what 
was  to  be  done  in  the  next  valley.  That  was 
all  rock  and  there  was  a  little  village  there, 
and  Carnehan  says, — 'Send  'em  to  the  old 
valley  to  plant,'  and  takes  ''era  there  and  gives 
'em  some  land  that  wasn't  took  before. 
They  were  a  poor  lot,  and  we  blooded  'em 
with  a  kid  before  letting  'em  into  the  '.lew 
Kingdom.  That  was  to  impress  the  people, 
and  then  they  settled  down  quiet,  and  Carne- 
han went  back  to  Dravot  who  had  got  into 
another  valley,  all  snow  and  ice  and  most 
mountaineous.  There  was  no  people  there 
and  the  Army  got  afraid,  so  Dravot  shoots 
one  of  them,  and  goes  on  till  he  finds  some 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    123 

people  in  a  village,  and  the  Army  explains 
that  unless  the  people  wants  to  be  killed  they 
had  better  not  shoot  their  little  matchlocks ; 
for  they  had  matchlocks.  We  makes  friends 
with  the  priest  and  I  stays  there  alone  with 
two  of  the  Army,  teaching  the  men  how  to 
drill,  and  a  thundering  big  Chief  comes  across 
the  snow  with  kettle-drums  and  horns  twang- 
ing, because  he  heard  there  was  a  new  God 
kicking  about.  Carnehan  sights  for  the  brown 
of  the  men  half  a  mile  across  the  snow  and 
wings  one  of  them.  Then  he  sends  a  mes- 
sage to  the  Chief  that,  unless  he  wishes  to  be 
killed,  he  must  come  and  shake  hands  with  me 
and  leave  his  arms  behind.  The  Chief  comes 
alone  first,  and  Carnehan  shakes  hands  with 
him  and  whirls  his  arms  about,  same  as  Dravot 
used,  and  very  much  surprised  that  Chief  was, 
and  strokes  my  eyebrows.  Then  Carnehan 
goes  alone  to  the  Chief,  and  asks  him  in  dumb 
show  if  he  had  an  enemy  he  hated.  '  I  have,' 
says  the  Chief.  So  Carnehan  weeds  out  the 
pick  of  his  men,  and  sets  the  two  of  the  Army 
to  show  them  drill  and  at  the  end  of  two  weeks 
the  men  can  maneuver  about  as  well  as  Vol- 
unteers. So  he  marches  with  the  Chief  to  a 
great  big  plain  on  the  top  of  a  mountain,  and 
the  Chief's  men  rushes  into  a  village  and 
takes  it ;  we  three  Martinis  firing  into  the 
brown  of  the  enemy.  So  we  took  that  village 
too,  and  I  gives  the  Chief  a  rag  from  my  coat 
and  says,  '  Occupy  till  I  come  : '  which  was 
scriptural.  By  way  of  a  reminder,  when  me 


124     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

and  the  Army  was  eighteen  hundred  yards 
away,  I  drops  a  bullet  near  him  standing  on 
the  snow,  and  all  the  people  falls  flat  on  their 
faces.  Then  I  sends  a  letter  to  Dravot,  wher- 
ever he  be  by  land  or  by  sea." 

At  the  risk  of  throwing  the  creature  out  of 
train  I  interrupted, — "How  could  you  write 
a  letter  up  yonder  ?  " 

"  The  letter  ?— Oh  !— The  letter  !  Keep 
looking  at  me  between  the  eyes,  please.  It 
was  a  string-talk  letter,  that  we'd  learned  the 
way  of  it  from  a  blind  begger  in  the  Punjab." 

I  remember  that  there  had  once  come  to 
the  office  a  blind  man  with  a  knotted  twig  and 
a  piece  of  string  which  he  wound  round  the 
twig  according  to  some  cipher  of  his  own. 
He  could,  after  the  lapse  of  days  or  hours, 
repeat  the  sentence  which  he  had  reeled  up. 
He  had  reduced  the  alphabet  to  eleven  prim- 
itive sounds ;  and  tried  to  teach  me  his  method, 
but  failed. 

"  I  sent  that  letter  to  Dravot,"  said  Carne- 
han  ;  "  and  told  him  to  come  back  because 
this  Kingdom  was  growing  too  big  for  me  to 
handle,  and  then  I  struck  for  the  first  valley, 
to  see  how  the  priests  were  working.  They 
called  the  village  we  took  along  with  the  Chief, 
Bashkai,  and  the  first  village  we  took,  Er-Heb. 
The  priests  at  Er-Heb  was  doing  all  right,  but 
they  had  a  lot  of  pending  cases  about  land  to 
show  me,  and  some  men  from  another  village 
had  been  firing  arrows  at  night ;  I  went  out  and 
looked  for  that  village  and  fired  four  rounds 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    125 

at  it  from  a  thousand  yards.  That  used  all 
the  cartridges  I  cared  to  spend,  and  I  waited 
for  Dravot,  who  had  been  away  two  or  three 
months,  and  I  kept  my  people  quiet. 

"  One  morning  I  heard  the  devil's  own  noise 
of  drums  and  horns,  and  Dan  Dravot  marches 
down  the  hill  with  his  Army  and  a  tail  of 
hundreds  of  men,  and,  which  was  the  most 
amazing — a  great  gold  crown  on  his  head. 
'  My  Gord,  Carnehan,'  says  Daniel,  '  this  is  a 
tremenjus  business,  and  we've  got  the  whole 
country  as  far  as  it's  worth  having.  I  am  the 
son  of  Alexander  by  Queen  Semiramis,  and 
you're  my  younger  brother  and  a  God  too ! 
It's  the  biggest  thing-  we've  ever  seen.  I've 
been  marching  and  righting  for  six  weeks  with 
the  Army,  and  every  footy  little  village  for 
fifty  miles  has  come  in  rejoiceful ;  and  more 
than  that,  I've  got  the  key  of  the  whole  show, 
as  you'll  see,  and  I've  got  a  crown  for  you  ! 
I  told  'em  to  make  two  of  'em  at  a  place  called 
Shu,  where  the  gold  lies  in  the  rock  like  suet 
in  mutton.  Gold  I've  seen,  and  turquoise  I've 
kicked  out  of  the  cliffs,  and  there's  garnets  in 
the  sands  of  the  river,  and  here's  a  chunk  of 
amber  that  a  man  brought  me.  Call  up  all 
the  priests  and,  here,  take  your  crown.' 

"One  of  the  men  opens  a  black  hair  bag, 
and  I  slips  the  crown  on.  It  was  too  small  and 
too  heavy,  but  I  wore  it  for  the  glory.  Ham- 
mered gold  it  was — five-pound  weight,  like  a 
hoop  of  a  barrel. 

" '  Peachey,'  says  Dravot,   '  we  don't  want 


126     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

to  fight  no  more.  The  Craft's  the  trick  so 
help  me!'  and  he  brings  forward,  that  same 
Chief  that  I  left  at  Bashkai— Billy  Fish  we 
called  him  afterwards,  because  he  was  so  like 
Billy  Fish  that  drove  the  big  tank-engine  at 
Mach  on  the  Bolan  in  the  old  days.  '  Shake 
hands  with  him,'  says  Dravot,  and  I  shook 
hands  and  nearly  dropped,  for  Billy  Fish  gave 
me  the  Grip.  I  said  nothing,  but  tried  him  with 
the  Fellow  Craft  Grip.  He  answers,  all  right, 
and  I  tried  the  Master's  Grip,  but  that  was  a 
slip.  '  A  Fellow  Crafts  he  is  ! '  I  says  to  Dan. 
'  Does  he  know  the  world  ? '  '  He  does,'  says 
Dan,  'and all  the  priests  know.  It's  a  mir- 
acle !  The  Chiefs  and  the  priests  can  work  a 
Fellow  Craft  Lodge  in  a  way  that's  very  like 
ours,  and  they've  cut  the  marks  on  the  rocks, 
but  they  don't  know  the  Third  Degree,  and 
they've  come  to  find  out.  It's  Gord's  Truth. 
I've  known  these  long  years  that  the  Afghans 
knew  up  to  the  Fellow  Craft  Degree,  but  this 
is  a  miracle.  A  God  and  a  Grand-Master  of 
the  Craft  am  I,  and  a  Lodge  in  the  Third 
Degree  I  will  open,  and  we'll  raise  the  head 
priests  and  the  Chiefs  of  the  villages.' 

"  '  It's  against  all  the  law,'  I  says,  '  holding 
a  Lodge  without  warrant  from  any  one  ;  and 
we  never  held  office  in  any  Lodge.' 

" '  It's  a  master-stroke  of  policy,'  says  Dravot. 
'  It  means  running  the  country  as  easy  as  a 
four-wheeled  bogy  on  a  down  grade.  We  can't 
stop  to  inquire  now,  or  they'll  turn  against  us. 
I've  forty  Chiefs  at  my  heel,  and  passed  and 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    127 

raised  according  to  their  merit  they  shall  be. 
Billet  these  men  on  the  villages  and  see  that 
we  run  up  a  Lodge  of  some  kind.  The  temple 
of  Imbra  will  do  for  the  Lodge-room.  The 
women  must  make  aprons  as  you  show  them. 
I'll  hold  a  levee  of  Chiefs  to-night  and  Lodge 
to-morrow.' 

"  I  was  fair  run  off  my  legs,  but  I  wasn't 
such  a  fool  as  not  to  see  what  a  pull  this  Craft 
business  gave  us.  I  showed  the  priests' 
'amilies  how  to  make  aprons  of  the  degrees, 
but  for  Dravot's  apron  the  blue  border  and 
marks  was  made  of  turquoise  lumps  on  white 
hide,  not  cloth.  We  took  a  great  square 
stone  in  the  temple  for  the  Master's  chair,  and 
little  stones  for  the  officers'  chairs,  and  painted 
the  black  pavement  with  white  squares,  and 
did  what  we  could  to  make  things  regular. 

"  At  the  levee  which  was  held  that  night  on 
the  hillside  with  big  bonfires,  Dravot  gives 
out  that  him  and  me  were  Gods  and  sons  of 
Alexander,  and  Past  Grand-Masters  in  the 
Craft,  and  was  come  to  make  Kafiristan  a 
country  where  every  man  should  eat  in  peace 
and  drink  in  quiet,  and  especially  obey  us. 
Then  the  Chiefs  come  round  to  shake  hands, 
and  they  was  so  hairy  and  white  and  fair  it 
was  just  shaking  hands  with  old  friends.  We 
gave  them  names  according  as  they  was  like 
men  we  had  known  in  India — Billy  Fish, 
Holly  Dilworth,  Pikky  Kergan  that  was  Bazar- 
master  when  I  was  at  Mhow,  and  so  on  and 
so  on. 


128     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

"  The  most  amazing  miracle  was  at  Lodge 
next  night.  One  of  the  old  priests  was 
watching  us  continuous,  and  I  felt  uneasy,  for 
I  knew  we'd  have  to  fudge  the  Ritual,  and  I 
didn't  know  what  the  men  knew.  The  old 
priest  was  a  stranger  come  in  from  beyond 
the  village  of  Bashkai.  The  minute  Dravot 
puts  on  the  Master's  apron  that  the  girls  had 
made  for  him,  the  priest  fetches  a  whoop  and 
a  howl,  and  tries  to  overturn  the  stone  that 
Dravot  was  sitting  on.  '  It's  all  up  now,'  I 
says.  '  That  comes  of  meddling  with  the 
Craft  without  warrant ! '  Dravot  never  winked 
an  eye,  not  when  ten  priests  took  and  tilted 
over  the  Grand-Master's  chair — which  was  to 
say  the  stone  of  Imbra.  The  priest  begins 
rubbing  the  bottom  end  of  it  to  clear  away 
the  black  dirt,  and  presently  he  shows  all  the 
other  priests  the  Master's  Mark,  same  as  was 
on  Dravot's  apron,  cut  into  the  stone.  Not 
*ven  the  priests  of  the  temple  of  Imbra  knew 
it  was  there.  The  old  chap  falls  flat  on  his 
face  at  Dravot's  feet  and  kisses  'em.  '  Luck 
again,'  says  Dravot,  across  the  Lodge  to  me, 
'  they  say  it's  the  missing  Mark  that  no  one 
could  understand  the  why  of.  We're  more 
than  safe  now.'  Then  he  bangs  the  butt  of 
his  gun  for  a  gavel  and  says  : — '  By  virtue  of 
the  authority  vested  in  me  by  my  own  right 
hand  and  the  help  of  Peachey,  I  declare  myself 
Grand-Master  of  all  Freemasonry  in  Kafiristan 
in  this  the  Mother  Lodge  o'  the  country,  and 
King  of  Kafiristan  equally  with  Peachey!' 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    129 

At  that  he  puts  on  his  crown  and  I  puts  on 
mine — I  was  doing  Senior  Warden — and  we 
opens  the  Lodge  in  most  ample  form.  It  was 
a  amazing  miracle  !  The  priests  moved  in 
Lodge  through  the  first  two  degrees  almost 
without  telling,  as  if  the  memory  was  coming 
back  to  them.  After  that,  Peachey  and  Dravot 
raised  such  as  was  worthy — high  priests  and 
Chiefs  of  far-off  villages.  Billy  Fish  was  the 
first,  and  I  can  tell  you  we  scared  the  soul  out 
of  him.  It  was  not  in  any  way  according  to 
Ritual,  but  it  served  our  turn.  We  didn't 
raise  more  than  ten  of  the  biggest  men  be- 
cause we  didn't  want  to  make  the  Degree 
common.  And  they  was  clamoring  to  be 
raised. 

"  '  In  another  six  months,'  says  Dravot, 
'  we'll  hold  another  Communication  and  see 
how  you  are  working.'  Then  he  asks  them 
about  their  villages,  and  learns  that  they  was 
fighting  one  against  the  other  and  were  fair 
sick  and  tired  of  it.  And  when  they  wasn't 
doing  that  they  was  fighting  with  the  Moham- 
medans. '  You  can  fight  those  when  they 
come  into  our  country,'  says  Dravot.  '  Tell 
off  every  tenth  man  of  your  tribes  for  a  Fron- 
tier guard,  and  send  two  hundred  at  a  time  to 
this  valley  to  be  drilled.  Nobody  is  going  to 
be  shot  or  speared  any  more  so  long  as  he 
does  well,  and  I  know  that  you  won't  cheat  me 
because  you're  white  people — sons  of  Alex- 
ander— and  not  like  common,  black  Moham- 
medans. You  are  my  people  and  by  God,' 
9 


130     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

:  ..;rs  he,  running  off  into  English  at  the  end— • 
-  Til  make  a  damned  fine  Nation  of  you,  or 
I'll  die  in  the  making  ! ' 

"  I  can't  tell  all  we  did  for  the  next  six 
months  because  Dravot  did  a  lot  I  couldn't 
see  the  hang  of,  and  he  learned  their  lingo  in 
a  way  I  never  could.  My  work  was  to  help 
the  people  plow,  and  now  and  again  go  out 
with  some  of  the  Army  and  see  what  the  other 
villages  were  doing,  and  make  'em  throw  rope- 
bridges  across  the  ravines  which  cut  up  the 
country  horrid.  Dravot  was  very  kind  to  me, 
but  when  he  walked  up  and  down  in  the  pine 
wood  pulling  that  bloody  red  beard  of  his  with 
both  fists  I  knew  he  was  thinking  plans  I 
could  not  advise  him  about,  and  I  just  waited 
for  orders. 

"  But  Dravot  never  showed  me  disrespect 
before  the  people.  They  were  afraid  of  me 
and  the  Army,  but  they  loved  Dan.  He  was 
the  best  of  friends  with  the  priests  and  the 
Chiefs  ;  but  any  one  could  come  across  the 
hills  with  a  complaint  and  Dravot  would  hear 
him  out  fair,  and  call  four  priests  together  and 
say  what  was  to  be  done.  He  used  to  call  in 
Billy  Fish  from  Bashkai,  and  Pikky  Kergan 
from  Shu,  and  an  old  Chief  we  called  Kafuzelum 
— it  was  like  enough  to  his  real  name — and 
hold  councils  with  'em  when  there  was  any 
fighting  to  be  done  in  small  villages.  That 
was  his  Council  of  War,  and  the  four  priests 
of  Bashkai,  Shu,  Khawak,  and  Madora  was 
his  Privy  Council.  Between  the  lot  of  'era 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    131 

they  sent  me,  with  forty  men  and  twenty  rifles, 
and  sixty  men  carrying  turquoises,  into  the 
Ghorband  country  to  buy  those  hand-made 
Martini  rifles,  that  come  out  of  the  Amir's 
workshops  at  Kabul,  from  one  of  the  Amir's 
Herati  regiments  that  would  have  sold  the 
very  teeth  out  of  their  mouths  for  turquoises. 

"  I  stayed  in  Ghorband  a  month,  and  gave 
the  Governor  there  the  pick  of  my  baskets  for 
hush-money,  and  bribed  the  Colonel  of  the 
regiment  some  more,  and,  between  the  two 
and  the  tribes-people,  we  got  more  than  a 
hundred  hand-made  Martinis,  a  hundred  good 
Kohat  Jezails  that'll  throw  to  six  hundred 
yards,  and  forty  man-loads  of  very  bad  am- 
munition for  the  rifles.  I  came  back  with 
what  I  had,  and  distributed  'em  among  the 
men  that  the  Chiefs  sent  in  to  me  to  drill. 
Dravot  was  too  busy  to  attend  to  those  things, 
but  the  old  Army  that  we  first  made  helped 
me,  and  we  turned  out  five  hundred  men  that 
could  drill,  and  two  hundred  that  knew  how 
to  hold  arms  pretty  straight.  Even  those 
cork-screwed,  hand-made  guns  was  a  miracle 
to  them.  Dravot  talked  big  about  powder- 
shops  and  factories,  walking  up  and  down  in 
the  pine  wood  when  the  winter  was  coming 
on. 

"  '  I  won't  make  a  Nation,'  says  he.  '  I'll 
make  an  Empire!  These  men  aren't  nig- 
gers ;  they're  English !  Look  at  their  eyes 
— look  at  their  mouths.  Look  at  the  way 
they  stand  up.  They  sit  on  chairs  in  theit 


132     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

own  houses.  They're  the  Lost  Tribes,  or 
something  like  it,  and  they've  grown  to  be 
English.  I'll  take  a  census  in  the  spring  if 
the  priests  don't  get  frightened.  There 
must  be  a  fair  two  million  of  'em  in  these 
hills.  The  villages  are  full  o'  little  children. 
Two  million  people — two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  fighting  men — and  all  English ! 
They  only  want  the  rifles  and  a  little  drilling. 
Two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men,  ready 
to  cut  in  on  Russia's  right  flank  when  she 
tries  for  India !  Peachey,  man,'  he  says, 
chewing  his  beard  in  great  hunks,  '  we  shall 
be  Emperors — Emperors  of  the  Earth ! 
Rajah  Brooke  will  be  a  suckling  to  us.  I'll 
treat  with  the  Viceroy  on  equal  terms.  I'll 
ask  him  to  send  me  twelve  picked  English 
— twelve  that  I  know  of — to  help  us  govern 
a  bit.  There's  Mackray,  Sergeant-pensioner 
at  Segowli  —  many's  the  good  dinner  he's 
given  me,  and  his  wife  a  pair  of  trousers. 
There's  Donkin,  the  Warder  of  Tounghoo 
Jail;  there's  hundreds  that  I  could  lay  my 
hand  on  if  I  was  in  India.  The  Viceroy 
shall  do  it  for  me.  I'll  send  a  man  through 
in  the  spring  for  those  men,  and  I'll  write  for 
a  dispensation  from  the  Grand  Lodge  for 
what  I've  done  as  Grand-Master.  That — and 
all  the  Sniders  that'll  be  thrown  out  when  the 
native  troops  in  India  take  up  the  Martini. 
They'll  be  worn  smooth,  but  they'll  do  for 
fighting  in  these  hills.  Twelve  English,  a 
hundred  thousand  Sniders  run  through  the 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    133 

Amir's  country  in  driblets — I'd  be  content 
with  twenty  thousand  in  one  year — and  we'd 
be  an  Empire.  When  everything  was  ship- 
shape, I'd  hand  over  the  crown — this  crown 
I'm  wearing  now — to  Queen  Victoria  on  my 
knees,  and  she'd  say : — "  Rise  up,  Sir  Daniel 
Dravot."  Oh,  it's  big !  It's  big,  I  tell  you  ! 
But  there's  so  much  to  be  done  in  every  place 
— Bashkai,  Khawk,  Shu,  and  every  where  else/ 

"  *  What  is  it  ? '  I  says.  '  There  are  ncr 
more  men  coming  in  to  be  drilled  this  autumn. 
Look  at  those  fat,  black  clouds.  They're 
bringing  the  snow.' 

" '  It  isn't  that,'  says  Daniel,  putting  his 
hand  very  hard  on  my  shoulder  ;  'and  I  don't 
wish  to  say  anything  that's  against  you,  for 
no  other  living  man  would  have  followed  me 
and  made  me  what  I  am  as  you  have  done^ 
You're  a  first-class  Commander-in-Chief,  and 
the  people  know  you  ;  but — it's  a  big  country, 
and  somehow  you  can't  help  me,  Peachey,  in 
the  way  I  want  to  be  helped.' 

" '  Go  to  your  blasted  priests,  then  ! '  1 
said,  and  I  was  sorry  when  I  made  that  re- 
mark, but  it  did  hurt  me  sore  to  find  Daniel 
talking  so  superior  when  I'd  drilled  all  the 
men,  and  done  all  he  told  me. 

" '  Don't  let's  quarrel,  Peachey/  says  Daniel 
without  cursing.  '  You're  a  King  too,  and 
the  half  of  this  Kingdom  is  yours;  but  can't 
you  see,  Peachey,  we  want  cleverer  men  than 
us  now — three  or  four  of  'em  that  we  can 
scatter  about  for  our  Deputies.  It's  a  huge- 


134     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

ous  great  State,  and  I  can't  always  tell  the 
right  thing  to  do,  and  I  haven't  time  for  all 
I  want  to  do,  and  here's  the  winter  coming  on 
and  all.'  He  put  half  his  beard  into  his 
mouth,  and  it  was  as  red  as  the  gold  of  his 
crown. 

"'I'm  sorry  Daniel,'  says  I.  'I've  done 
all  I  could.  I've  drilled  the  men  and  shown 
the  people  how  to  stack  their  oats  better; 
and  I've  brought  in  those  tinware  rifles  from 
Ghorband — but  I  know  what  you're  driving 
at.  I  take  it  Kings  always  feel  oppressed 
that  way.' 

"  '  There's  another  thing  too,'  says  Dravot, 
walking  up  and  down.  '  The  winter's  coming 
and  these  people  won't  be  giving  much 
trouble,  and  if  they  do  we  can't  move  about. 
I  want  a  wife.' 

"  '  For  Cord's  sake  leave  the  women  alone  1  * 
I  says.  '  We've  both  got  all  the  work  we  can, 
though  I  am  a  fool.  Remember  the  Contrack, 
and  keep  clear  o'  women.' 

"  '  The  Contrack  only  lasted  till  such  time 
as  we  was  Kings ;  and  Kings  we  have  been 
these  months  past,'  says  Dravot,  weighing  his 
crown  in  his  hand.  '  You  go  get  a  wife  too, 
Peachey — a  nice,  strapping  plump  girl  that'll 
keep  you  warm  in  the  winter.  They're  pret- 
tier than  English  girls,  and  we  can  take  the  pick 
of  'em.  Boil  'em  once  or  twice  in  hot  water, 
and  they'll  come  as  fair  as  chicken  and  ham.' 

"  '  Don't  tempt  me  ! '  I  says.  '  I  will  not 
have  any  dealings  with  a  woman  not  till  we  are 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    135 

a  dam'  side  more  settled  than  we  are  now.  I've 
been  doing  the  work  o'  two  men,  and  you've 
been  doing  the  work  o'  three.  Let's  lie  off  a 
bit,  and  see  if  we  can  get  some  better  tobacco 
from  Afghan  country  and  run  in  some  good 
liquor;  but  no  women.' 

"  '  Who's  talking  o'  women  ? '  says  Dravot, 
'  I  said  wife — a  Queen  to  breed  a  King's  son 
for  the  King.  A  Queen  out  of  the  strongest 
tribe,  that'll  make  them  your  blood-brothers, 
and  that'll  lie  by  your  side  and  tell  you  all  the 
people  thinks  about  you  and  their  own  affairs. 
That's  what  I  want.' 

" '  Do  you  remember  that  Bengali  woman  I 
kept  at  Mogul  Serai  when  I  was  a  plate-layer  ?' 
says  I.  *  A  fat  lot  o'  good  she  was  to  me. 
She  taught  me  the  lingo  and  one  or  two 
other  things  ;  but  what  happened  ?  She  ran 
away  with  the  Station  Master's  servant  and 
half  my  month's  pay.  Then  she  turned  up  at 
Dadur  Junction  in  tow  of  a  half-caste,  and  had 
the  impidence  to  say  I  was  her  husband — all 
among  the  drivers  in  the  running  shed  I ' 

" '  We've  done  with  that,'  says  Dravot. 
'These  women  are  whiter  than  you  or  me, 
and  a  Queen  I  will  have  for  the  winter  months.' 

"  '  For  the  last  time  o'  asking,  Dan,  do  not,'  I 
say.  '  It'll  only  bring  us  harm.  The  Bible 
says  that  Kings  ain't  to  waste  their  strength 
on  women,  'specially  when  they've  got  a  new 
raw  Kingdom  to  work  over.' 

" '  For  the  last  time  of  answering  I  will,' 
said  Dravot,  and  he  went  away  through  the 


136     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

pine-trees  looking  like  a  big  red  devil.  The 
low  sun  hit  his  crown  and  beard  on  one  side 
and  the  two  blazed  like  hot  coals. 

"  But  getting  a  wife  was  not  as  easy  as  Dan 
thought.  He  put  it  before  the  Council,  and 
there  was  no  answer  till  Billy  Fish  said  that 
he'd  better  ask  the  girls.  Dravot  damned 
them  all  round.  *  What's  wrong  with  me  ? ' 
he  shouts,  standing  by  the  idol  Imbra.  '  Am 
I  a  dog  or  am  I  not  enough  of  a  man  for  your 
wenches  ?  Haven't  I  put  the  shadow  of  my 
hand  over  this  country  ?  Who  stopped  the 
last  Afghan  raid  ? '  It  was  me  really,  but 
Dravot  was  too  angry  to  remember.  *  Who 
bought  your  guns  ?  Who  repaired  the  bridges  ? 
Who's  the  Grand-Master  of  the  sign  cut  in  the 
stone  ? '  and  he  thumped  his  hand  on  the 
block  that  he  used  to  sit  on  in  Lodge,  and  at 
Council,  which  opened  like  Lodge  always. 
Billy  Fish  said  nothing  and  no  more  did  the 
others.  '  Keep  your  hair  on,  Dan,'  said  I ; 
'  and  ask  the  girls.  That's  how  it's  done  at 
Home,  and  these  people  are  quite  English/ 

<k '  The  marriage  of  the  King  is  a  matter  of 
State,'  says  Dan,  in  a  white-hot  rage,  for  he 
could  feel,  I  hope,  that  he  was  going  against 
his  better  mind.  He  walked  out  of  the  Coun- 
cil-room, and  the  others  sat  still,  looking  at 
the  ground. 

"  '  Billy  Fish,'  says  I  to  the  Chief  of  Bash- 
kai,  «  what's  the  difficulty  here  ?  A  straight 
answer  to  a  true  friend.'  'You  know,'  says 
Billy  Fish.  '  How  should  a  man  tell  you 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    137 

who  know  everything  ?  How  can  daughters 
of  men  marry  Gods  or  Devils  ?  It's  not  proper. ' 

"  I  remembered  something  like  that  in  the 
Bible ;  but  if,  after  seeing  us  as  long  as  they 
had,  they  still  believed  we  were  Gods,  it  wasn't 
for  me  to  undeceive  them. 

"  *  A  God  can  do  anything,'  says  I.  '  If 
the  King  is  fond  of  a  girl  he'll  not  let  her 
die.'  'She'll  have  to,'  said  Billy  Fish. 
"  There  are  all  sorts  of  Gods  and  Devils  in 
these  mountains,  and  now  and  again  a  girl 
marries  one  of  them  and  isn't  seen  any  more. 
Besides,  you  two  know  the  Mark  cut  in  the 
stone.  Only  the  Gods  know  that.  We 
thought  you  were  men  till  you  showed  the 
sign  of  the  Master.' 

"  I  wished  then  that  we  had  explained  about 
the  loss  of  the  genuine  secrets  of  a  Master- 
Mason  at  the  first  go-off ;  but  I  said  nothing. 
All  that  night  there  was  a  blowing  of  horns  in 
a  little  dark  temple  half-way  down  the  hill, 
and  I  heard  a  girl  crying  fit  to  die.  One  of 
the  priests  told  us  that  she  was  being  prepared 
to  marry  the  King. 

"  *  I'll  have  no  nonsense  of  that  kind,'  says 
Dan.  '  I  don't  want  to  interfere  with  your 
customs,  but  I'll  take  my  own  wife.'  '  The 
girl's  a  little  bit  afraid,'  says  the  priest.  '  She 
thinks  she's  going  to  die,  and  they  are  a-heart- 
ening  of  her  up  down  in  the  temple/ 

" '  Hearten  her  very  tender,  then,'  says 
Dravot,  '  or  I'll  hearten  you  with  the  butt  of  a 
gun  so  that  you'll  never  want  to  be  heartened 


138     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

again.'  He  licked  his  lips,  did  Dan,  and 
stayed  up  walking  about  more  than  half  the 
night,  thinking  of  the  wife  that  he  was  going 
to  get  in  the  morning.  I  wasn't  any  means 
comfortable,  for  I  knew  that  dealings  with  a 
wo  nan  in  foreign  parts,  though  you  was  a 
crowned  King  twenty  times  over,  could  not 
but  be  risky.  I  got  up  very  early  in  the  morn- 
ing while  Dravot  was  asleep,  and  I  saw  the 
priests  talking  together  in  whispers,  and  the 
Chiefs  talking  together  too,  and  they  looked 
at  me  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes. 

"  '  What  is  up,  Fish  ? '  I  says  to  the  Bashkai 
man,  who  was  wrapped  up  in  his  furs  and 
looking  splendid  to  behold. 

"  '  I  can't  rightly  say,'  says  he  ;  '  but  if  you 
can  induce  the  King  to  drop  all  this  nonsense 
about  marriage,  you'll  be  doing  him  and  me 
and  yourself  a  great  service.' 

"  '  That  I  do  believe,'  says  I.  '  But  sure, 
you  know  Billy,  as  well  as  me,  having  fought 
against  and  for  us,  that  the  King  and  me  are 
nothing  more  than  two  of  the  finest  men  that 
God  Almighty  ever  made.  Nothing  more,  I 
do  assure  you.' 

"  '  That  may  be,'  says  Billy  Fish,  '  and  yet 
I  should  be  sorry  if  it  was.'  He  sinks  his 
head  upon  his  great  fur  cloak  for  a  minute 
and  thinks.  '  King,'  says  he,  '  be  you  man 
or  God  or  Devil,  I'll  stick  by  you  to-day.  I 
have  twenty  of  my  men  with  me,  and  they 
will  follow  me.  We'll  go  to  Bashkai  until  the 
storm  blows  over.' 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    139 

"  A  little  snow  had  fallen  in  the  night,  and 
everything  was  white  except  the  greasy  fat 
clouds  that  blew  down  and  down  from  the 
north.  Dravot  came  out  with  his  crown  on 
his  head,  swinging  his  arms  and  stamping 
his  feet,  and  looking  more  pleased  than 
Punch. 

"  '  For  the  last  time,  drop  it,  Dan,'  says  I 
in  a  whisper.  *  Billy  Fish  here  says  that 
there  will  be  a  row.' 

"  *  A  row  among  my  people  ! '  says  Dravot, 
'  Not  much.  Peachey,  you're  a  fool  not  to  get 
a  wife  too.  Where's  the  girl  ? '  says  he  with 
a  voice  as  loud  as  the  braying  of  a  jackass. 
'Call  up  all  the  Chiefs  and  priests  and  let  the 
Emperor  see  if  his  wife  suits  him.' 

"  There  was  no  need  to  call  any  one. 
They  were  all  there  leaning  on  their  guns  and 
spears  round  the  clearing  in  the  center  of  the 
pine  wood.  A  deputation  of  priests  went  down 
to  the  little  temple  to  bring  up  the  girl,  and 
the  horns  blew  up  fit  to  wake  the  dead. 
Billy  Fish  saunters  round  and  gets  as  close 
to  Daniel  as  he  could,  and  behind  him  stood 
his  twenty  men  with  matchlocks.  Not  a  man 
of  them  under  six  feet.  I  was  next  to  Dravot, 
and  behind  me  was  twenty  men  of  the  regular 
Army.  Up  comes  the  girl,  and  a  strapping 
wench  she  was,  covered  with  silver  and  tur- 
quoises, but  white  as  death,  and  looking  back 
every  minute  at  the  priests. 

"  '  She'll  do,'  said  Dan,  looking  her  over. 
'What's  to  be  afraid  of,  lass?  Come  and 


140     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

kiss  me.'  He  puts  his  arm  round  her.  She 
shuts  her  eyes,  gives  a  bit  of  a  squeak,  and 
down  goes  her  face  in  the  side  of  Dan's  flam- 
ing red  beard. 

"  '  The  slut's  bitten  me  ! '  says  he,  clapping 
his  hand  to  his  neck,  and,  sure,  enough,  his 
hand  was  red  with  blood.  Billy  Fish  and 
two  of  his  matchlock-men  catches  hold  of  Dan 
by  the  shoulders  and  drags  him  into  the  Bash- 
kai  lot,  while  the  priests  howls  in  their  lingo, 
— '  Neither  God  nor  Devil  but  a  man  !  '  I 
was  all  taken  aback,  for  a  priest  cut  at  me  in 
front,  and  the  Army  behind  began  firing  into 
the  Bashkai  men. 

" '  God  A-mighty  !  '  says  Dan.  *  What  is 
the  meaning  o'  this  ?  ' 

" '  Come  back !  Come  away  ! '  says  Billy 
Fish.  '  Ruin  and  Mutiny  is  the  matter. 
We'll  break  for  Bashkai  if  we  can.' 

"  I  tried  to  give  some  sort  of  orders  to  my 
men — the  men  o'  the  regular  Army — but  it 
was  no  use,  so  I  fired  into  the  brown  of  'em 
with  an  English  Martini  and  drilled  three  beg- 
gars in  a  line.  The  valley  was  full  of  shout- 
ing, howling  creatures,  and  every  soul  was 
shrieking  '  Not  a  God  nor  a  Devil  but  only  a 
man ! '  The  Bashkai  troops  stuck  to  Billy 
Fish  all  they  were  worth,  but  their  matchlocks 
wasn't  half  as  good  as  the  Kabul  breech- 
loaders, and  four  of  them  dropped.  Dan  was 
bellowing  like  a  bull,  for  he  was  very  wrathy  ; 
and  Billy  Fish  had  a  hard  job  to  prevent 
him  running  out  at  the  crowd. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    141 

" '  We  can't  stand,'  says  Billy  Fish.  «  Make 
a  run  for  it  down  the  valley  !  The  whole 
place  is  against  us.'  The  matchlock-men 
ran,  and  we  went  down  the  valley  in  spite  of 
Dravot's  protestations.  He  was  swearing 
horribly  and  crying  out  that  he  was  a  King. 
The  priests  rolled  great  stones  on  us,  and  the 
regular  Army  fired  hard,  and  there  wasn't 
more  than  six  men,  not  counting  Dan,  Billy 
Fish,  and  Me,  that  came  down  to  the  bottom 
of  the  valley  alive. 

"  Then  they  stopped  firing  and  the  horns 
in  the  temple  blew  again.  '  Come  away — for 
Gord's  sake  come  away  1 '  says  Billy  Fish. 
4  They'll  send  runners  out  to  all  the  villages 
before  ever  we  get  to  Bashkai.  I  can  protect 
you  there,  but  I  can't  do  anything  now.' 

"  My  own  notion  is  that  Dan  began  to  go 
mad  in  his  head  from  that  hour.  He  stared 
up  and  down  like  a  stuck  pig.  Then  he  was 
all  for  walking  back  alone  and  killing  the 
priests  with  his  bare  hands  ;  which  he  could 
have  done.  'An  Emperor  am  I,'  says 
Daniel,  '  and  next  year  I  shall  be  a  Knight  of 
the  Queen.' 

"  '  All  right,  Dan,'  says  I ;  '  but  come 
along  now  while  there's  time.' 

" '  It's  your  fault/  says  he,  '  for  not  looking 
after  your  Army  better.  There  was  mutiny 
in  the  midst,  and  you  didn't  know — you 
damned  engine-driving,  plate-laying,  mission- 
ary's pass-hunting  hound  ! '  He  sat  upon  a 
rock  and  called  me  every  foul  name  he  could 


142     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

lay  tongue  to.  I  was  too  heart-sick  to  care 
though  it  was  all  his  foolishness  that  brought 
the  smash. 

"  '  I'm  sorry,  Dan,'  says  I,  *  but  there's  no 
accounting  for  natives.  This  business  is  our 
Fifty-Seven.  Maybe  we'll  make  something 
out  of  it  yet,  when  we've  got  to  Bashkai.' 

"  '  Let's  get  to  Bashkai,  then,'  says  Dan, 
*  and,  by  God,  when  I  come  back  here  again 
I'll  sweep  the  valley  so  there  isn't  a  bug  in  a 
blanket  left ! ' 

"We  walked  all  that  day,  and  all  that  night 
Dan  was  stumping  up  and  down  on  the  snow, 
chewing  his  beard  and  muttering  to  himself. 

"  '  There's  no  hope  o'  getting  clear,'  said 
Billy  Fish.  '  The  priests  will  have  sent  run- 
ners to  the  villages  to  say  that  you  are  only 
men.  Why  didn't  you  stick  on  as  Gods  till 
things  was  more  settled  ?  I'm  a  dead  man,' 
says  Billy  Fish,  and  he  throws  himself  down 
on  the  snow  and  begins  to  pray  to  his  Gods. 

"  Next  morning  we  was  in  a  cruel  bad  coun- 
try— all  up  and  down,  no  level  ground  at  all, 
and  no  food  either.  The  six  Bashkai  men 
looked  at  Billy  Fish  hungry-wise  as  if  they 
wanted  to  ask  something,  but  they  said  never 
a  word.  At  noon  we  came  to  the  top  of  a  flat 
mountain  all  covered  with  snow,  and  when  we 
climbed  up  into  it,  behold,  there  was  an  Army 
in  position  waiting  in  the  middle! 

"  '  The  runners  have  been  very  quick,'  says 
Billy  Fish,  with  a  little  bit  of  a  laugh.  *  They 
are  waiting  for  us.' 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    143 

'*  Three  or  four  men  began  to  fire  from  the 
enemy's  side,  and  a  chance  shot  took  Daniel 
in  the  calf  of  the  leg.  That  brought  him  to 
his  senses.  He  looks  across  the  snow  at  the 
Army,  and  sees  the  rifles  that  we  had  brought 
into  the  country. 

"  '  We're  done  for,'  says  he.  '  They  are 
Englishmen,  these  people, — and  it's  my 
blasted  nonsense  that  has  brought  you  to  this. 
Get  back,  Billy  Fish,  and  take  your  men 
away;  you've  done  what  you  could,  and  now 
cut  for  it.  Carnehan,'  says  he,  'shake  hands 
with  me  and  go  along  with  Billy.  Maybe 
they  won't  kill  you.  I'll  go  and  meet  'era 
alone.  It's  me  that  did  it.  Me,  the  King  ! ' 

" «  Go  ! '  says  I.  '  Go  to  Hell,  Dan  !  I'm 
with  you  here.  Billy  Fish,  you  clear  out,  and 
we  two  will  meet  those  folk.' 

"  '  I'm  a  Chief,'  says  Billy  Fish,  quite  quiet, 
'I  stay  with  you.  My  men  can  go.' 

"  The  Bashkai  fellows  didn't  wait  for  a 
second  word  but  ran  off,  and  Dan  and  Me 
and  Billy  Fish  walked  across  to  where  the 
drums  were  drumming  and  the  horns  were 
horning.  It  was  cold — awful  cold.  I've  got 
that  cold  in  the  back  of  my  head  now.  There's 
a  lump  of  it  there." 

The  punkah-coolies  had  gone  to  sleep. 
Two  kerosene  lamps  were  blazing  in  the 
office,  and  the  perspiration  poured  down  my 
face  and  splashed  on  the  blotter  as  I  leaned 
forward.  Carnehan  was  shivering,  and  I 
feared  that  his  mind  might  go.  I  wiped  my 


£44     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

face,  took  a  fresh  grip  of  the  piteously  man- 
gled hands,  and  said  :  — "  What  happened 
after  that  ? " 

The  momentary  shift  of  my  eyes  had  broken 
the  clear  current. 

"  What  was  you  pleased  to  say  ? "  whined 
Carnehan.  "They  took  them  without  any 
sound.  Not  a  little  whisper  all  along  the 
snow,  not  though  the  King  knocked  down 
the  first  man  that  set  hand  on  him — not  though 
old  Peachey  fired  his  last  cartridge  into  the 
brown  of  'em.  Not  a  single  solitary  sound 
did  those  swines  make.  They  just  closed  up 
tight,  and  I  tell  you  their  furs  stunk.  There 
was  a  man  called  Billy  Fish,  a  good  friend  of 
us  all,  and  they  cut  his  throat,  Sir,  then  and 
there,  like  a  pig  ;  and  the  King  kicks  up  the 
bloody  snow  and  says : — 'We've  had  a  dashed 
fine  run  for  our  money.  What's  coming 
next  ? '  But  Peachey,  Peachey  Taliaf erro,  I 
tell  you,  Sir,  in  confidence  as  betwixt  two 
friends,  he  lost  his  head,  Sir.  No,  he  didn't 
neither.  The  King  lost  his  head,  so  he  did, 
all  along  o'one  of  those  cunning  rope-bridges. 
Kindly  let  me  have  the  paper-cutter,  Sir.  It 
tilted  this  way.  They  marched  him  a  mile 
across  that  snow  to  a  rope-bridge  over  a  ravine 
with  a  river  at  the  bottom.  You  may  have 
seen  such.  They  prodded  him  behind  like 
an  ox.  '  Damn  your  eyes  ! '  says  the  King. 
'  D'you  suppose  I  can't  die  like  a  gentleman  ? ' 
He  turns  to  Peachey — Peachey  that  was  cry- 
ing like  a  child.  '  I've  brought  you  to 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    145 

Peachey,'  says  he.  '  Brought  you  out  of  your 
happy  life  to  be  killed  in  Kafiristan,  where 
you  was  late  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Em- 
peror's forces.  Say  you  forgive  me,  Peachey.' 
1 1  do,'  says  Peachey.  '  Fully  and  freely  do 
I  forgive  you,  Dan.'  '  Shake  hands,  Peachey,' 
says  he.  'I'm  going  now.'  Out  he  goes, 
looking  neither  right  nor  left,  and  when  he 
was  plumb  in  the  middle  of  those  dizzy  danc- 
ing ropes,  '  Cut,  you  beggars,'  he  shouts  ;  and 
they  cut,  and  old  Dan  fell,  turning  round  and 
round  and  round,  twenty  thousand  miles,  for 
he  took  half  an  hour  to  fall  till  he  struck  the 
water,  and  I  could  see  his  body  caught  on  a 
rock  with  the  gold  crown  close  beside. 

"  But  do  you  know  what  they  did  to  Peachey 
between  two  pine  trees  ?  They  crucified  him, 
Sir,  as  Peachey's  hands  will  show.  They  used 
wooden  pegs  for  his  hands  and  his  feet ,  and 
he  didn't  die.  He  hung  there  and  screamed, 
and  they  took  him  down  next  day,  and  said 
it  was  a  miracle  that  he  wasn't  dead.  They 
took  him  down — poor  old  Peachey  that  hadn't 
done  them  any  harm — that  hadn't  done  them 
any  ...  " 

He  rocked  to  and  fro  and  wept  bitterly, 
wiping  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  scarred 
hands  and  moaning  like  a  child  for  some  ten 
minutes. 

"  They  was  cruel  enough  to  feed  him  up  in 

the  temple,  because  they  said  he  was  more  of 

a  God  than  old  Daniel  that  was  a  man.     Then 

they  turned  him  out  on  the  snow,  and  told 

10 


146     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

him  to  go  home,  and  Peachey  came  home  in 
about  a  year,  begging  along  the  roads  quite 
safe ;  for  Daniel  Dravot  he  walked  before 
and  said : — '  Come  along,  Peachey.  It's  a 
big  thing  we're  doing.'  The  mountains  they 
danced  at  night,  and  the  mountains  they  tried 
to  fall  on  Peachey's  head,  but  Dan  he  held 
up  his  hand,  and  Peachey  came  along  bent 
double.  He  never  let  go  of  Dan's  hand,  and 
he  never  let  go  of  Dan's  head.  They  gave  it 
to  him  as  a  present  in  the  temple,  to  remind 
him  not  to  come  again,  and  though  the  crown 
was  pure  gold,  and  Peachey  was  starving, 
never  would  Peachey  sell  the  same.  You 
knew  Dravot,  Sir !  You  knew  Right  Worship- 
ful Brother  Dravot !  Look  at  him  now  !  " 

He  fumbled  in  the  mass  of  rags  round  his 
bent  waist ;  brought  out  a  black  horsehair 
bag  embroidered  with  silver  thread ;  and 
shook  therefrom  on  to  my  table — the  dried, 
withered  head  of  Daniel  Dravot !  The  morn- 
ing sun  that  had  long  been  paling  the  lamps 
struck  the  red  beard  and  blind  sunken  eyes ; 
struck,  too,  a  heavy  circlet  of  gold  studded 
with  raw  turquoises,  that  Carnehan  placed 
tenderly  on  the  battered  temples. 

"  You  behold  now,"  said  Carnehan,  "  the 
Emperor  in  his  habit  as  he  lived — the  King 
of  Kafiristan  with  his  crown  upon  his  head. 
Poor  old  Daniel  that  was  a  monarch  once !  " 

I  shuddered,  for,  in  spite  of  defacements 
manifold,  I  recognized  the  head  of  the  man 
of  Marwar  Junction.  Carnehan  rose  to  go. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King    147 

I  attempted  to  stop  him.  He  was  not  fit  to 
walk  abroad.  "  Let  me  take  away  the 
whisky,  and  give  me  a  little  money,"  he 
gasped.  "  I  was  a  King  once.  Fll  go  to  the 
Deputy  Commissioner  and  ask  to  set  in  the 
Poorhouse  till  I  get  my  health.  No,  thank 
you,  I  can't  wait  till  you  get  a  carriage  for  me= 
I've  urgent  private  affairs — in  the  south — at 
Marwar. " 

He  shambled  out  of  the  office  and  departed 
in  the  direction  of  the  Deputy  Commissioner's 
house.  That  day  at  noon  I  had  occasion  to 
go  down  the  blinding  hot  Mall,  and  I  saw  a 
crooked  man  crawling  along  the  white  dust  of 
the  roadside,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  quavering 
dolorously  after  the  fashion  of  street-singers 
at  Home.  There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight,  and 
he  was  out  of  all  possible  earshot  of  the 
houses.  And  he  sang  through  his  nose,  turn- 
ing his  head  from  right  to  left : — 

44  The  Son  of  Man  goes  forth  to  war, 

A  golden  crown  to  gain  ; 
His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar—- 
Who follows  in  his  train  ?  " 

I  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  put  the  poor 
wretch  into  my  carriage  and  drove  him  off  to 
the  nearest  missionary  for  eventual  transfer 
to  the  Asylum.  He  repeated  the  hymn  twice 
while  he  was  with  me  whom  he  did  not  in  the 
least  recognize,  and  I  left  him  singing  it  to 
the  missionary. 

Two  days  later  I  inquired  after  his  welfare 
of  the  Superintendent  of  the  Asylum. 


148     The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

"He  was  admitted  suffering  from  sun- 
stroke. He  died  early  yesterday  morning," 
said  the  Superintendent  "  Is  it  true  that  he 
was  half  an  hour  bareheaded  in  the  sun  at 
midday  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "but  do  you  happen  to 
know  if  he  had  anything  upon  him  by  any 
chance  when  he  died?" 

"  Not  to  my  knowledge, "  said  the  Superin^ 
tendent. 

And  there  the  matter  rests. 


CITY  OF  THE  DREADFUL  NIGHT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

. 

^  A   REAL   LIVE   CITY. 

WE  are  all  backwoodsmen  and  barbarians 
together — we  oth'ers  dwelling  beyond  the 
Ditch,  in  the  outer  darkness  of  the  Mofussil. 
There  are  no  such  things  as  commissioners 
and  heads  of  departments  in  the  world,  and 
there  is  only  one  city  in  India.  Bombay  is  too 
green,  too  pretty  and  too  stragglesome  ;  and 
Madras  died  ever  so  long  ago.  Let  us  take 
off  our  hats  to  Calcutta,  the  many-sided,  the 
smoky,  the  magnificent,  as  we  drive  in  over 
the  Hugli  Bridge  in  the  dawn  of  a  still  Feb- 
ruary morning.  We  have  left  India  behind 
us  at  Howrah  Station,  and  now  we  enter  for- 
eign parts.  No,  not  wholly  foreign.  Say 
rather  too  familiar. 

All  men  of  certain  age  know  the  feeling  of 
caged  irritation — an  illustration  in  the  Graphic, 
a  bar  of  music  of  the  light  words  of  a  friend 
from  home  may  set  it  ablaze — that  comes  from 
the  knowledge  of  our  lost  heritage  of  London. 
I 


2      City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

At  home  they,  the  other  men,  our  equals,  have 
at  their  disposal  all  that  town  can  supply — 
the  roar  of  the  streets,  the  lights,  the  music, 
the  pleasant  places,  the  millions  of  their  own 
kind,  and  a  wilderness  full  of  pretty,  fresh- 
colored  English-women,  theaters  and  restau- 
rants. It  is  their  right.  They  accept  it  as 
such,  and  even  affect  to  look  upon  it  with  con- 
tempt. And  we,  we  have  nothing  except  the 
few  amusements  that  we  painfully  build  up 
for  ourselves — the  dolorous  dissipations  of 
gymkhanas  where  every  one  knows  everybody 
else,  or  the  chastened  intoxication  of  dances 
where  all  engagements  are  booked,  in  ink,  ten 
days  ahead,  and  where  everybody's  antece- 
dents are  as  patent  as  his  or  her  method  of 
waltzing.  We  have  been  deprived  of  our  in- 
heritance. The  men  at  home  are  enjoying  it 
all,  not  knowing  how  fair  and  rich  it  is,  and 
we  at  the  most  can  only  fly  westward  for  a  few 
months  and  gorge  what,  properly  speaking, 
should  take  seven  or  eight  or  ten  luxurious 
years.  That  is  the  lost  heritage  of  London  . 
and  the  knowledge  of  the  forfeiture,  wilful  or 
forced,  comes  to  most  men  at  times  and  sea- 
sons, and  they  get  cross. 

Calcutta  holds  out  false  hopes  of  some  re- 
turn. The  dense  smoke  hangs  low,  in  the 
chill  of  the  morning,  over  an  ocean  of  roofs, 
and,  as  the  city  wakes,  there  goes  up  to  the 
smoke  a  deep,  full-throated  boom  of  life  and 
motion  and  humanity.  For  this  reason  does 
he  who  sees  Calcutta  for  the  first  time  hang 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night      3 

joyously  out  of  the  ticca-gharri  and  sniff  the 
smoke,  and  turn  his  face  toward  the  tumult, 
saying:  "  This  is,  at  last,  some  portion  of  my 
heritage  returned  to  me.  This  is  a  city. 
There  is  life  here,  and  there  should  be  all 
manner  of  pleasant  things  for  the  having, 
across  the  river  and  under  the  smoke."  When 
Leland,  he  who  wrote  the  Hans  Breitmann 
Ballads,  once  desired  to  know  the  name  of  an 
austere,  plug-hatted  red-skin  of  repute,  his 
answer,  from  the  lips  of  a  half-breed,  was  : 

"  He  Injun.  He  big  Injun.  He  heap  big 
Injun.  He  dam  big  heap  Injun.  He  dam 
mighty  great  big  heap  Injun.  He  Jones  ! " 
The  litany  is  an  expressive  one,  and  exactly 
describes  the  first  emotions  of  a  wandering 
savage  adrift  in  Calcutta.  The  eye  has  lost 
its  sense  of  proportion,  the  focus  has  con- 
tracted through  overmuch  residence  in  up- 
country  stations — twenty  minutes' canter  from 
hospital  to  parade-ground,  you  know — and  the 
mind  has  shrunk  with  the  eye.  Both  say  to- 
gether, as  they  take  in  the  sweep  of  shipping 
above  and  below  the  Hugli  Bridge:  "Why, 
this  is  London  1  This  is  the  docks.  This  is 
Imperial.  This  is  worth  coming  across  India 
to  see ! " 

Then  a  distinctly  wicked  idea  takes  posses- 
sion of  the  mind  :  "  What  a  divine — what  a 
heavenly  place  to  loot! "  This  gives  place  to 
a  much  worse  devil — that  of  Conservatism.  It 
seems  not  only  a  wrong  but  a  criminal  thing 
to  allow  natives  to  have  any  voice  in  the  con- 


4      City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

trol  of  such  a  city — adorned,  docked,  wharfed, 
fronted  and  reclaimed  by  Englishmen,  exist- 
ing only  because  England  lives,  and  depen- 
dent for  its  life  on  England.  All  India  knows 
of  the  Calcutta  Municipality;  but  has  any 
one  thoroughly  investigated  the  Big  Calcutta 
Stink  !  There  is  only  one.  Benares  is  fouler 
in  point  of  concentrated,  pent-up  muck,  and 
there  are  local  stenches  in  Peshawur  which  are 
stronger  than  the  B.  C.  S. ;  but,  for  diffused, 
soul-sickening  expansiveness,  the  reek  of  Cal- 
cutta beats  both  Benares  and  Peshawur. 
Bombay  cloaks  her  stenches  with  a  veneer  of 
assafaetida  and  /zz^a-tobacco ;  Calcutta  is 
above  pretense.  There  is  no  tracing  back  the 
Calcutta  plague  to  any  one  source.  It  is  faint, 
it  is  sickly,  and  it  is  indescribable ;  but 
Americans  at  the  Great  Eastern  Hotel  say 
that  it  is  something  like  the  smell  of  the 
Chinese  quarter  in  San  Francisco.  It  is  cer- 
tainly not  an  Indian  smell.  It  resembles  the 
essence  of  corruption  that  has  rotted  for  the 
second  time — the  clammy  odor  of  blue  slime. 
And  there  is  no  escape  from  it.  It  blows 
across  the  maidan;  it  comes  in  gusts  into  the 
corridors  of  the  Great  Eastern  Hotel ;  what 
they  are  pleased  to  call  the  "  Palaces  of  Chou- 
ringhi  "  carry  it ;  it  swirls  round  the  Bengal 
Club  ;  it  pours  out  of  by-streets  with  sicken- 
ing intensity,  and  the  breeze  of  the  morning 
is  laden  with  it.  It  is  first  found,  in  spite  of 
the  fume  of  the  engines,  in  Howrah  Station. 
It  seems  to  be  worst  in  the  little  lanes  at  the 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night      5 

back  of  Lai  Bazar  where  the  drinking-shops 
are,  but  it  is  nearly  as  bad  opposite  Govern- 
ment House  and  in  the  Public  Offices.  The 
thing  is  intermittent.  Six  moderately  pure 
mouthfuls  of  air  may  be  drawn  without  offense. 
Then  comes  the  seventh  wave  and  the  queasi- 
ness  of  an  uncultured  stomach.  If  you  live 
long  enough  in  Calcutta  you  grow  used  to  it. 
The  regular  residents  admit  the  disgrace,  but 
their  answer  is:  "Wait  till  the  wind  blows  off 
the  Salt  Lakes  where  all  the  sewage  goes,  and 
then  you'll  smell  something."  That  is  their 
defense  !  Small  wonder  that  they  consider 
Calcutta  is  a  fit  place  for  a  permanent  Viceroy. 
Englishmen  who  can  calmly  extenuate  one 
shame  by  another  are  capable  of  asking  for 
anything — and  expecting  to  get  it. 

If  an  up-country  station  holding  three 
thousand  troops  and  twenty  civilians  owned 
such  a  possession  as  Calcutta  does,  the  Dep- 
uty Commissioner  or  the  Cantonment  Magis- 
trate would  have  all  the  natives  off  the  board 
of  management  or  decently  shoveled  into  the 
background  until  the  mess  was  abated.  Then 
they  might  come  on  again  and  talk  of  "  high- 
handed oppression  "  as  much  as  they  liked. 
That  stink,  to  an  unprejudiced  nose,  damns 
Calcutta  as  a  City  of  Kings.  And,  in  spite 
of  that  stink,  they  allow,  they  even  encourage, 
natives  to  look  after  the  place !  The  damp, 
drainage-soaked  soil  is  sick  with  teeming 
life  of  a  hundred  years,  and  the  Municipal 
Board  list  is  choked  with  the  names  of 


6         City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

natives — men  of  the  breed  born  in  and  raised 
off  this  surfeited  muck-heap  !  They  own  prop- 
erty, these  amiable  Aryans  on  the  Municipal 
and  the  Bengal  Legislative  Council.  Launch 
a  proposal  to  tax  them  on  that  property,  and 
they  naturally  howl.  They  also  howl  up- 
country,  but  there  the  halls  for  mass-meetings 
are  few,  and  the  vernacular  papers  fewer, 
and  with  a  zubbar  dusti  Secretary  and  a  Presi- 
dent whose  favor  is  worth  the  having  and 
whose  wrath  is  undesirable,  men  are  kept 
clean  despite  themselves,  and  may  not  poison 
their  neighbors.  Why,  asks  a  savage,  let 
them  vote  at  all  ?  They  can  put  up  with  this 
filthiness.  They  cannot  have  any  feelings 
worth  caring  a  rush  for.  Let  them  live 
quietly  and  hide  away  their  money  under  our 
protection,  while  we  tax  them  till  they  know 
through  their  purses  the  measure  of  their  neg- 
lect in  the  past,  and  when  a  little  of  the  smell 
has  been  abolished,  bring  them  back  again  to 
talk  and  take  the  credit  of  enlightenment, 
The  better  classes  own  their  broughams  and 
barouches  ;  the  worse  can  shoulder  an 
Englishman  into  the  kennel  and  talk  to  him 
as  though  he  were  a  khitmatgar.  They  can 
refer  to  an  English  lady  as  •znaurat;  they  are 
permitted  a  freedom — not  to  put  it  too  coarsely 
— of  speech  which,  if  used  by  an  Englishman 
toward  an  Englishman,  would  end  in  serious 
trouble.  They  are  fenced  and  protected  and 
made  inviolate.  Surely  they  might  be  con- 
tent with  all  those  things  without  entering  into 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night        7 

matters  which  they  cannot,  by  the  nature  of 
their  birth,  understand. 

Now,  whether  all  this  genial  diatribe  be  the 
outcome  of  an  unbiased  mind  or  the  result 
first  of  sickness  caused  by  that  ferocious 
stench,  and  secondly  of  headache  due  to  day- 
long smoking  to  drown  the  stench,  is  an  open 
question.  Anyway,  Calcutta  is  a  fearsome 
place  for  a  man  not  educated  up  to  it. 

A  word  of  advice  to  other  barbarians.  Do 
not  bring  a  north-country  servant  into  Cal- 
cutta. He  is  sure  to  get  into  trouble,  because 
he  does  not  understand  the  customs  of  the 
city.  A  Punjabi  in  this  place  for  the  first 
time  esteems  it  his  bounden  duty  to  go  to  the 
Ajaib-ghar — the  Museum.  Such  an  one  has 
gone  and  is  even  now  returned  very  angry 
and  troubled  in  the  spirit.  "  I  went  to  the 
Museum,"  says  he,  "  and  no  one  gave  me  any 
gati.  I  went  to  the  market  to  buy  my  food, 
and  then  I  sat  upon  a  seat.  There  came  a 
chaprissi  who  said  :  '  Go  away,  I  want  to  sit 
here.'  I  said  :  *I  am  here  first.'  He  said  : 
'  I  am  chaprissi!  nikal  jao  /'  and  hit  he  me. 
Now  that  sitting-place  was  open  to  all,  so  I 
hit  him  till  he  wept.  He  ran  away  for  the 
Police,  and  I  went  away  too,  for  the  Police 
here  are  all  Sahibs.  Can  I  have  leave  from 
two  o'clock  to  go  and  look  for  that  chaprissi 
and  hit  him  again  ?  " 

Behold  the  situation  I  An  unknown  city 
full  of  smell  that  makes  one  long  for  rest  and 
retirement,  and  a  champing  naukar,  not  yet 


r 

8  •       City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

six  hours  in  the  stew,  who  has  started  a  blood- 
feud  with  an  unknown  chaprissi  and  clamors 
to -go  forth  to  the  fray.  General  orders  that, 
whatever  may  be  said  or  done  to  him,  he  must 
not  say  or  do  anyting  in  return  lead  to  an  elo- 
quent harangue  on  the  quality  of  izzat  and  the 
'nature  of  "  face  blackening."  There  is  no 
izzat  in  Calcutta,  and  this  Awful  Smell  black- 
ens the  face  of  any  Englishman  who  sniffs  it. 

Alas  !  for  the  lost  delusion  of  the  heritage 
that  was  to  be  restored.  Let  us  sleep,  let  us 
sleep,  and  pray  that  Calcutta  may  be  better 
to-morrow. 

At  present  it  is  remarkably  like  sleeping 
with  a  corpse. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    REFLECTIONS   OF   A    SAVAGE. 

MORNING  brings  counsel.  Does  Calcutta 
smell  so  pestiferously  after  all  ?  Heavy  rain 
has  fallen  in  the  night.  She  is  newly-washed, 
and  the  clear  sunlight  shows  her  at  her  best. 
Where,  oh  where,  in  all  this  wilderness  of  life 
shall  a  man  go  ?  Newman  and  Co.  publish  a 
three-rupee  guide  which  produces  first  despair 
and  then  fear  in  the  mind  of  the  reader.  Let 
us  drop  Newman  and  Co.  out  of  the  topmost 
window  of  the  Great  Eastern,  trusting  to  luck 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night       "9 

and  the  flight  of  the  hours  to  evolve  wonders 
and  mysteries  and  amusements. 

The  Great  Eastern  hums  with  life  through 
all  its  hundred  rooms.  Doors  slam  merrily, 
and  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  run  up  ;and 
down  the  staircases.  This  alone  is  refreshing, 
because  the  passers  bump  you  and  ask  you  to 
stand  aside.  Fancy  finding  any  place  outside 
a  Levee-room  where  Englishmen  are  crowded 
together  to  this  extent !  Fancy  sitting  down 
seventy  strong  to  table  d'hote  and  with  a 
deafening  clatter  of  knives  and  forks  !  Fancy 
finding  a  real  bar  whence  drinks  may  be  ob- 
tained !  and,  joy  of  joys,  fancy  stepping  out 
of  the  hotel  into  the  arms  of  a  live,  white, 
helmeted,  buttoned,  truncheoned  Bobby  !  A 
beautiful,  burly  Bobby — just  the  sort  of  man 
who,  seven  thousand  miles  away,  staves  off 
the  stuttering  witticism  of  the  three-o'clock- 
in-the-morning  reveler  by  the  strong  badged 
arm  of  authority.  What  would  happen  if  one 
spoke  to  this  Bobby  ?  Would  he  be  offended  ? 
He  is  not  offended.  He  is  affable.  He  has 
to  patrol  the  pavement  in  front  of  the  Great 
Eastern  and  to  see  that  the  crowding  ticca- 
gharris  do  not  jam.  Toward  a  presumably 
respectable  white  he  behaves  as  a  man  and  a 
brother.  There  is  no  arrogance  about  him. 
And  this  is  disappointing.  Closer  inspection 
shows  that  he  is  not  a  real  Bobby  after  all. 
He  is  a  Municipal  Police  something  and  his 
uniform  is  not  correct;  at  least  if  they  have 
not  changed  the  dress  of  the  men  at  home. 


io       City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

But  no  matter.  Later  on  we  will  inquire  into 
the  Calcutta  Bobby,  because  he  is  a  white 
man,  and  has  to  deal  with  some  of  the  "  tough- 
est "  folk  that  ever  set  out  of  malice  afore- 
thought to  paint  Job  Charnock's  city  vermil- 
ion. You  must  not,  you  cannot  cross  Old 
Court  House  Street  without  looking  carefully 
to  see  that  you  stand  no  chance  of  being  run 
over.  This  is  beautiful.  There  is  a  steady 
roar  of  traffic,  cut  every  two  minutes  by  the 
deeper  roll  of  the  trams.  The  driving  is 
eccentric,  not  to  say  bad,  but  there  is  the 
traffic — more  than  unsophisticated  eyes  have 
beheld  for  a  certain  number  of  years.  It 
means  business,  it  means  money-making,  it 
means  crowded  and  hurrying  life,  and  it  gets 
into  the  blood  and  makes  it  move.  Here  be 
big  shops  with  plate-glass  fronts — all  display- 
ing the  well-known  names  of  firms  that  \ve 
savages  only  correspond  with  through  the 
V.  P.  P.  and  Parcels  Post.  They  are  all 
here,  as  large  as  life,  ready  to  supply  any- 
thing you  need  if  you  only  care  to  sign. 
Great  is  the  fascination  of  being  able  to 
obtain  a  thing  on  the  spot  without  having 
to  write  for  a  week  and  wait  for  a  month, 
and  then  get  something  quite  different.  No 
wonder  pretty  ladies,  who  live  anywhere  with- 
in a  reasonable  distance,  come  down  to  do 
their  shopping  personally. 

"  Look  here.  If  you  want  to  be  respectable 
you  mustn't  smoke  in  the  streets.  Nobody 
does  it."  This  is  advice  kindly  tendered  by  a 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night       n 

friend  in  a  black  coat.  There  is  no  Leve'e  or 
Lieutenant-Governor  in  sight ;  but  he  wears 
the  frock-coat  because  it  is  daylight,  and  he 
can  be  seen.  He  also  refrains  from  smoking 
for  the  same  reason.  He  admits  that  Provi- 
dence built  the  open  air  to  be  smoked  in,  but 
he  says  that  "  it  isn't  the  thing. "  This  man 
has  a  brougham,  a  remarkably  natty  little  pill- 
box with  a  curious  wabble  about  the  wheels. 
He  steps  into  the  brougham  and  puts  on — a 
top  hat,  a  shiny  black  "  plug." 

There  was  a  man  up-country  once  who 
owned  a  top-hat.  He  leased  it  to  amateur 
theatrical  companies  for  some  seasons  until 
the  nap  wore  off.  Then  he  threw  it  into  a 
tree  and  wild  bees  hived  in  it.  Men  were 
wont  to  come  and  look  at  the  hat,  in  its  palmy 
days,  for  the  sake  of  feeling  homesick.  It  in- 
terested all  the  station,  and  died  with  two 
seers  of  babul  flower  honey  in  its  bosom.  But 
top-hats  are  not  intended  to  be  worn  in  India. 
They  are  as  sacred  as  home  letters  and  old 
rosebuds.  The  friend  cannot  see  this.  He 
allows  that  if  he  stepped  out  of  his  brougham 
and  walked  about  in  the  sunshine  for  ten 
minutes  he  would  get  a  bad  headache.  In 
half  an  hour  he  would  probably  catch  sun- 
stroke. He  allows  all  this,  but  he  keeps  to 
his  hat  and  cannot  see  why  a  barbarian  is 
moved  to  inextinguishable  laughter  at  the 
sight.  Every  one  who  owns  a  brougham  and 
many  people  who  hire  ticca-gharris  keep  top- 
hats  and  black  frock-coats.  The  effect  is 


12       City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

curious,  and  at  first  fills  the  beholder  with 
surprise. 

And  now,  "  let  us  see  the  handsome  houses 
where  the  wealthy  nobles  dwell."  Northerly 
lies  the  great  human  jungle  of  the  native  city, 
stretching  from  Burra  Bazar  to  Chitpore. 
That  can  keep.  Southerly  is  the  maidan  and 
Chouringhi.  "  If  you  get  out  into  the  center 
of  the  maidan  you  will  understand  why  Cal- 
cutta is  called  the  City  of  Palaces."  The 
traveled  American  said  so  at  the  Great 
Eastern.  There  is  a  short  tower,  falsely 
called  a  "  memorial,"  standing  in  a  waste  of 
soft,  sour  green.  That  is  as  good  a  place  to 
get  to  as  any  other.  Near  here  the  newly- 
landed  waler  is  taught  the  whole  duty  of  the 
trap-horse  and  careers  madly  in  a  brake. 
Near  here  young  Calcutta  gets  upon  a  horse 
and  is  incontinently  run  away  with.  Near 
here  hundreds  of  kine  feed,  close  to  the 
innumerable  trams  and  the  whirl  of  traffic 
along  the  face  of  Chouringhi  Road.  The 
size  of  the  maidan  takes  the  heart  out  of 
any  one  accustomed  to  the  "gardens  "  of  up- 
country,  just  as  they  say  Newmarket  Heath 
cows  a  horse  accustomed  to  more  shut-in 
course.  The  huge  level  is  studded  with 
brazen  statues  of  eminent  gentlemen  riding 
fretful  horses  on  diabolically  severe  curbs. 
The  expanse  dwarfs  the  statues,  dwarfs  every- 
thing except  the  frontage  of  the  far-away 
Chouringhi  Road.  It  is  big — it  is  impressive. 
There  is  no  escaping  the  fact.  They  built 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night       13 

houses  in  the  old  days  when  the  rupee  was 
two  shillings  and  a  penny.  Those  houses  are 
three-storied,  and  ornamented  with  service- 
staircases  like  houses  in  the  Hills.  They  are 
also  very  close  together,  and  they  own  garden 
walls  of  /w^a-masonry  pierced  with  a  single 
gate.  In  their  shut-upness  they  are  British. 
In  their  spaciousness  they  are  Oriental,  but 
those  service-staircases  do  not  look  healthy. 
We  will  form  an  amateur  sanitary  commission 
and  call  upon  Chouringhi. 

A  first  introduction  to  the  Calcutta  durwan 
is  not  nice.  If  he  is  chewing  pan,  he  does 
not  take  the  trouble  to  get  rid  of  his  quid. 
If  he  is  sitting  on  his  charpoy  chewing  sugar- 
cane, he  does  not  think  it  worth  his  while  to 
rise.  He  has  to  be  taught  those  things,  and 
he  cannot  understand  why  he  should  be  re- 
proved. Clearly  he  is  a  survival  of  a  played- 
out  system.  Providence  never  intended  that 
any  native  should  be  made  a  concierge  more 
insolent  than  any  of  the  French  variety.  The 
people  of  Calcutta  put  an  Uria  in  a  little  lodge 
close  to  the  gate  of  their  house,  in  order  that 
loafers  may  be  turned  away,  and  the  houses 
protected  from  theft.  The  natural  result  is 
that  the  durwan  treats  everybody  whom  he 
does  not  know  as  a  loafer,  has  an  intimate 
and  vendible  knowledge  of  all  the  outgoings 
and  incomings  in  that  house,  and  controls,  to 
a  large  extent,  the  nomination  of  the  naukar- 
log.  They  say  that  one  of  the  estimable  class 
is  now  suing  a  bank  for  about  three  lakhs  of 


14       City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

rupees.  Up-country,  a  Lieutenant-Governor's 
chaprissi  has  to  work  for  thirty  years  before 
he  can  retire  on  seventy  thousand  rupees  of 
savings.  The  Calcutta  durwan  is  a  great  in- 
stitution. The  head  and  front  of  his  offense 
is  that  he  will  insist  upon  trying  to  talk  En- 
glish. How  he  protects  the  houses  Calcutta 
only  knows.  He  can  be  frightened  out  of  his 
wits  by  severe  speech,  and  is  generally  asleep 
in  calling  hours.  If  a  rough  round  of  visits 
be  any  guide,  three  times  out  of  seven  he  is 
fragrant  of  drink.  So  much  for  the  durwan. 
Now  for  the  houses  he  guards. 

Very  pleasant  is  the  sensation  of  being 
ushered  into  a  pestiferously  stablesome  draw- 
ing-room. "Does  this  always  happen?" 
"  No,  not  unless  you  shut  up  the  room  for 
some  time;  but  if  you  open  \hQJhilmills  there 
are  other  smells.  You  see  the  stables  and  the 
servants'  quarters  are  close  too."  People  pay 
five  hundred  a  month  for  half-a-dozen  rooms 
filled  with  attr  of  this  kind.  They  make  no 
complaint.  When  they  think  the  honor  of  the 
city  is  at  stake  they  say  defiantly  :  "  Yes,  but 
you  must  remember  we're  a  metropolis.  We 
are  crowded  here.  We  have  no  room.  We 
aren't  like  your  little  stations."  Chouringhi 
is  a  stately  place  full  of  sumptuous  houses, 
but  it  is  best  to  look  at  it  hastily.  Stop  to 
consider  for  a  moment  what  the  cramped  com- 
pounds, the  black  soaked  soil,  the  netted  in- 
tricacies of  the  service-staircases,  the  packed 
stables,  the  seethment  of  human  life  round  the 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night       15 

durwans*  lodges  and  the  curious  arrangement 
of  little  open  drains  means,  and  you  will  call  it 
a  whited  sepulcher. 

Men  living  in  expensive  tenements  suffer 
from  chronic  sore-throat,  and  will  tell  you 
cheerily  that  "  we've  got  typhoid  in  Calcutta 
now."  Is  the  pest  ever  out  of  it  ?  Everything 
seems  to  be  built  with  a  view  to  its  comfort. 
It  can  lodge  comfortably  on  roofs,  climb  along 
from  the  gutter-pipe  to  piazza,  or  rise  from 
sink  to  veranda  and  thence  to  the  topmost 
story.  But  Calcutta  says  that  all  is  sound  and 
produces  figures  to  prove  it ;  at  the  same  time 
admitting  that  healthy  cut  flesh  will  not 
readily  heal.  Further  evidence  may  be  dis- 
pensed with. 

Here  come  pouring  down  Park  Street  on 
the  maidan  a  rush  of  broughams,  neat  buggies, 
the  lightest  of  gigs,  trim  office  brownberrys, 
shining  victorias,  and  a  sprinkling  of  veritable 
hansom  cabs.  In  the  broughams  sit  men  in 
top-hats.  In  the  other  carts,  young  men,  all 
very  much  alike,  and  all  immaculately  turned 
out.  A  fresh  stream  from  Chouringhi  joins 
the  Park  Street  detachment,  and  the  two  to- 
gether stream  away  across  the  maidan  toward 
the  business  quarter  of  the  city.  This  is  Cal- 
cutta going  to  office — the  civilians  to  the 
Government  Buildings  and  the  young  men 
to  their  firms  and  their  blocks  and  their 
wharves.  Here  one  sees  that  Calcutta  has 
the  best  turn-out  in  the  Empire.  Horses 
and  traps  alike  are  enviably  perfect,  and— 


1 6       City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

mark  the  touchstone  of  civilization — the  lamps 
are  in  the  sockets.  This  is  distinctly  refresh- 
ing. Once  more  we  will  take  off  our  hats 
to  Calcutta,  the  well-appointed,  the  luxuri- 
ous. The  country-bred  is  a  rare  beast  here; 
his  place  is  taken  by  the  waler,  and  the 
waler,  though  a  ruffian  at  heart,  can  be  made 
to  look  like  a  gentleman.  It  would  be  inde- 
corous as  well  as  insane  to  applaud  the  wink- 
ing harness,  the  perfectly  lacquered  panels, 
and  the  liveried  saises.  They  show  well  in 
the  outwardly  fair  roads  shadowed  by  the 
Palaces. 

How  many  sections  of  the  complex  society 
of  the  place  do  the  carts  carry  ?  Imprimis, 
the  Bengal  Civilian  who  goes  to  Writers'  Build- 
ings and  sits  in  a  perfect  office  and  speaks 
flippantly  of  "sending  things  into  India," 
meaning  thereby  the  Supreme  Government. 
He  is  a  great  person,  and  his  mouth  is  full  of 
promotion-and-appointment  "shop.''  Gener- 
ally he  is  referred  to  as  a  "  rising  man."  Cal- 
cutta seems  full  of  "  rising  men."  Secondly, 
the  Government  of  India  man,  who  wears  a 
familiar  Simla  face,  rents  a  flat  when  he  is 
not  up  in  the  Hills,  and  is  rational  on  the 
subject  of  the  drawbacks  of  Calcutta.  Thirdly, 
the  man  of  the  "  firms,"  the  pure  non-official 
who  fights  under  the  banner  of  one  of  the 
great  houses  of  the  City,  or  for  his  own  hand 
in  a  neat  office,  or  dashes  about  Clive  Street 
in  a  brougham  doing  "  share  work  "  or  some- 
thing of  the  kind.  He  fears  not  "  Bengal," 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     17 

nor  regards  he  "India."  He  swears  im- 
partially at  both  when  their  actions  interfere 
with  his  operations.  His  "  shop "  is  quite 
unintelligible.  He  is  like  the  English  city 
man  with  the  chill  off,  lives  well  and  enter- 
tains hospitably.  In  the  old  days  he  was 
greater  than  he  is  now,  but  still  he  bulks  large.. 
He  is  rational  in  so  far  that  he  will  help  the 
abuse  of  the  Municipality,  but  womanish  in 
his  insistence  on  the  excellencies  of  Calcutta. 
Over  and  above  these  who  are  hurrying  to 
work  are  the  various  brigades,  squads  and 
detachments  of  the  other  interests.  But  they 
are  sets  and  not  sections,  and  revolve  round 
Belvedere,  Government  House,  and  Fort 
William.  Simla  and  Darjeeling  claim  them 
in  the  hot  weather.  Let  them  go.  They  wear 
top-hats  and  frock-coats. 

It  is  time  to  escape  from  Chouringhi  Road 
and  get  among  the  long-shore  folk,  who  have 
no   prejudices   against   tobacco,  and  who    all 
use  pretty  nearly  the  same  sort  of  hat. 
2 


i8     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 
CHAPTER  III. 

THE  COUNCIL  OF  THE  GODS. 

He  set  up  conclusions  to  the  number  of  nine  thousand 
•seven  hundred  and  sixty  four  ...  he  went  after- 
ward to  the  Sorbonne,  where  he  maintained  argument 
against  the  theologians  for  the  space  of  six  weeks,  from 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning  till  six  in  the  evening,  ex- 
cept for  an  interval  of  two  hours  to  refresh  themselves 
and  take  their  repasts,  and  at  this  were  present  the 
greatest  part  of  the  lords  of  the  court,  the  masters  of 
request,  presidents,  counselors,  those  of  the  accompts, 
secretaries,  advocates,  and  others ;  as  also  the  sheriffs 
of  the  said  town. — Pantagruel. 

"  THE  Bengal  Legislative  Council  is  sitting 
now.  You  will  find  it  in  an  octagonal  wing 
of  Writers'  Buildings :  straight  across  the 
maidan.  It's  worth  seeing."  "  What  are  they 
sitting  on  ?  "  "  Municipal  business.  No  end 
of  a  debate."  So  much  for  trying  to  keep 
low  company.  The  long-shore  loafers  must 
stand  over.  Without  doubt  this  Council  is 
going  to  hang  some  one  for  the  state  of  the 
City,  and  Sir  Steuart  Bayley  will  be  chief  ex- 
ecutioner. One  does  not  come  across  Councils 
every  day. 

Writers'  Buildings  are  large.  You  can 
trouble  the  busy  workers  of  half-a-dozen  de- 
partments before  you  stumble  upon  the  black- 
stained  staircase  that  leads  to  an  upper  cham- 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     19 

ber  looking  out  over  a  populous  street.  Wild 
chaprissis  block  the  way.  The  Councilor 
Sahibs  are  sitting,  but  any  one  can  enter. 
"  To  the  right  of  the  Lat  Sahib's  chair,  and 
go  quietly."  Ill-mannered  minion  !  Does  he 
expect  the  awe-stricken  spectator  to  prance  in 
with  a  jubilant  war-whoop  or  turn  Catherine- 
wheels  round  that  sumptuous  octagonal  room 
with  the  blue-domed  roof  ?  There  are  gilt 
capitals  to  the  half  pillars  and  an  Egyptian 
patterned  lotus-stencil  makes  the  walls  de- 
corously gay.  A  thick  piled  carpet  covers  all 
the  floor,  and  must  be  delightful  in  the  hot 
weather.  On  a  black  wooden  throne,  com- 
fortably cushioned  in  green  leather,  sits  Sir 
Steuart  Bayley,  Ruler  of  Bengal.  The  rest 
are  all  great  men,  or  else  they  would  not  be 
there.  Not  to  know  them  argues  oneself  un- 
known. There  are  a  dozen  of  them,  and  sit 
six  aside  at  two  slightly  curved  lines  of  beauti- 
fully polished  desks.  Thus  Sir  Steuart  Bayley 
occupies  the  frog  of  a  badly  made  horseshoe 
split  at  the  toe.  In  front  ,of  him,  at  a  table 
covered  with  books  and  pamphlets  and  papers, 
toils  a  secretary.  There  is  a  seat  for  the  Re- 
porters, and  that  is  all.  The  place  enjoys  a 
chastened  gloom,  and  its  very  atmosphere 
fills  one  with  awe.  This  is  the  heart  of  Bengal, 
and  uncommonly  well  upholstered.  If  the 
work  matches  the  first-class  furniture,  the  ink- 
pots, the  carpets,  and  the  resplendent  ceiling, 
there  will  be  something  worth  seeing.  But 
where  is  the  criminal  who  is  to  be  hanged  for 


20     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

the  stench  that  runs  up  and  down  Writers' 
Buildings  staircases,  for  the  rubbish  heaps 
in  the  Chitpore  Road,  for  the  sickly  savor  of 
Chouringhi,  for  the  dirty  little  tanks  at  the 
back  of  Belvedere,  for  the  street  full  of  small- 
pox, for  the  reeking  gharri-stand  outside  the 
Great  Eastern,  for  the  state  of  the  stone  and 
dirt  pavements,  for  the  condition  of  the  gullies 
of  Shampooker,  and  for  a  hundred  other 
things  ? 

"  This,  I  submit,  is  an  artificial  scheme  in 
supersession  of  Nature's  unit,  the  individual." 
The  speaker  is  a  slight,  spare  native  in  a  flat 
hat-turban,  and  a  black  alpaca  frock-coat. 
He  looks  like  a  -vakil  to  the  boot-heels,  and, 
with  his  unvarying  smile  and  regulated  ges- 
ticulation, recalls  memories  of  up-country 
courts.  He  never  hesitates,  is  never  at  a  loss 
for  a  word,  and  never  in  one  sentence  repeats 
himself.  He  talks  and  talks  and  talks  in  a 
level  voice,  rising  occasionally  half  an  octave 
when  a  point  has  to  be  driven  home.  Some 
of  his  periods  sound  very  familiar.  This,  for 
instance,  might  be  a  sentence  from  the  Mir- 
ror: "  So  much  for  the  principle.  Let  us 
now  examine  how  far  it  is  supported  by  prec- 
edent." This  sounds  bad.  When  a  fluent 
native  is  discoursing  of  "principles"  and 
"  precedents,"  the  chances  are  that  he  will  go 
on  for  some  time.  Moreover,  where  is  the 
criminal,  and  what  is  all  this  talk  about  ab- 
stractions ?  They  want  shovels  not  senti- 
ments, in  this  part  of  the  world. 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     21 

A  friendly  whisper  brings  enlightenment; 
"  They  are  plowing  through  the  Calcutta  Mu- 
nicipal Bill — plurality  of  votes  you  know ; 
here  are  the  papers."  And  so  it  is!  Amass 
of  motions  and  amendments  on  matters  relat- 
ing to  ward  votes.  Is  A  to  be  allowed  to  give 
two  votes  in  one  ward  and  one  in  another? 
Is  section  ten  to  be  omitted,  and  is  one  man 
to  be  allowed  one  vote  and  no  more?  How 
many  votes  does  three  hundred  rupees'  worth 
of  landed  property  carry  ?  Is  it  better  to  kiss 
a  post  or  throw  it  in  the  fire  ?  Not  a  word 
about  carbolic  acid  and  gangs  of  domes.  The 
little  man  in  the  black  choga  revels  in  his  sub- 
ject. He  is  great  on  principles  and  prece- 
dents, and  the  necessity  of  "  popularizing  our 
system."  He  fears  that  under  certain  cir- 
cumstances "  the  status  of  the  candidates  will 
decline."  He  riots  in  "  self-adjusting  major- 
ities," and  the  healthy  influence  of  the  edu- 
cated middle  classes. 

For  a  practical  answer  to  this,  there  steals 
across  the  council  chamber  just  one  faint 
whiff.  It  is  as  though  some  one  laughed  low 
and  bitterly.  But  no  man  heeds.  The  English- 
men look  supremely  bored,  the  native  mem- 
bers stare  stolidly  in  front  of  them.  Sir 
Steuart  Bayley's  face  is  as  set  as  the  face  of 
the  Sphinx.  For  these  things  he  draws  his 
pay,  and  his  is  a  low  wage  for  heavy  labor. 
But  the  speaker,  now  adrift,  is  not  altogether 
to  be  blamed.  He  is  a  Bengali,  who  has  got 
before  him  just  such  a  subject  as  his  soul 


22     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

loveth — an  elaborate  piece  of  academical  re- 
form leading  no-whither.  Here  is  a  quiet 
room  full  of  pens  and  papers,  and  there  are 
men  who  must  listen  to  him.  Apparently  there 
is  no  time  limit  to  the  speeches.  Can  you 
wonder  that  he  talks  ?  He  says  "  I  submit  " 
once  every  ninety  seconds,  varying  the  form 
with  "  I  do  submit."  The  popular  element 
in  the  electoral  body  should  have  prominence. 
Quite  so.  He  quotes  one  John  Stuart  Mill  to 
prove  it.  There  steals  over  the  listener  a 
numbing  sense  of  nightmare.  He  has  heard 
all  this  before  somewhere — yea ;  even  down 
to  J.  S.  Mill  and  the  references  to  the  "  true 
interests  of  the  ratepayers."  He  sees  what 
is  coming  next.  Yes,  there  is  the  old  Sabha 
Anjuman  journalistic  formula — "  Western  edu 
cation  is  an  exotic  plant  of  recent  importa 
tion. "  How  on  earth  did  this  man  drag  West- 
ern education  into  this  discussion  ?  Who 
knows  ?  Perhaps  Sir  Steuart  Bayley  does, 
He  seems  to  be  listening.  The  others  are 
looking  at  their  watches.  The  spell  of  the 
level  voice  sinks  the  listener  yet  deeper  into 
a  trance.  He  is  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of  all 
the  cant  of  all  the  political  platforms  of  Great 
Britain.  He  hears  all  the  old,  old  vestry 
phrases,  and  once  more  he  smells  the  smell. 
That  is  no  dream.  Western  education  is  an 
exotic  plant.  It  is  the  upas  tree,  and  it  is  all 
our  fault.  We  brought  it  out  from  England 
exactly  as  we  brought  out  the  ink  bottles  and 
the  patterns  for  the  chairs.  We  planted  it 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     23 

and  it  grew — monstrous  as  a  banian.  Now 
we  are  choked  by  the  roots  of  it  spreading  so 
thickly  in  this  fat  soil  of  Bengal.  The  speaker 
continues.  Bit  by  bit.  We  builded  this 
dome,  visible  and  invisible,  the  crown  of 
Writers'  Buildings,  as  we  have  built  and 
peopled  the  buildings.  Now  we  have  gone 
too  far  to  retreat,  being  "  tied  and  bound  with 
the  chain  of  our  own  sins."  The  speech  con* 
tinues.  We  made  that  florid  sentence.  That 
torrent  of  verbiage  is  ours.  We  taught  him 
what  was  constitutional  and  what  was  uncon- 
stitutional in  the  days  when  Calcutta  smelt. 
Calcutta  smells  still,  but  we  must  listen  to  all 
that  he  has  to  say  about  the  plurality  of  votes 
and  the  threshing  of  wind  and  the  weaving  of 
ropes  of  sand.  It  is  our  own  fault  absolutely. 
The  speech  ends,  and  there  rises  a  gray 
Englishman  in  a  black  frock-coat.  He  looks 
a  strong  man,  and  a  worldly.  Surely  he  will 
say  :  "Yes,  Lala  Sahib,  all  this  may  be  true 
talk,  but  there's  a  burra  krab  smell  in  this 
place,  and  everything  must  be  safkaroed'm  a 
week,  or  the  Deputy  Commissioner  will  not 
take  any  notice  of  you  in  durbar"  He  says 
nothing  of  the  kind.  This  is  a  Legislative 
Council,  where  they  call  each  other  "  Honor- 
able So-and-So's."  The  Englishman  in  the 
frock-coat  begs  all  to  remember  that  "  we  are 
discussing  principles,  and  no  consideration  of 
the  details  ought  to  influence  the  verdict  on 
the  principles."  Is  he  then  like  the  rest  ? 
How  does  this  strange  thing  come  about? 


24     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

Perhaps  these  so  English  office  fittings  are  re- 
sponsible for  the  warp.  The  Council  Chamber 
might  be  a  London  Board-room.  Perhaps 
after  long  years  among  the  pens  and  papers 
its  occupants  grow  to  think  that  it  really  is, 
and  in  this  belief  give  resumes  of  the  history 
of  Local  Self-Government  in  England. 

The  black  frock-coat,  emphasizing  his  points 
with  his  spectacle-case,  is  telling  his  friends 
how  the  parish  was  first  the  unit  of  self-gov- 
ernment. He  then  explains  how  burgesses 
were  elected,  and  in  tones  of  deep  fervor 
announces :  "  Commissioners  of  Sewers  are 
elected  in  the  same  way."  Whereunto  all 
this  lecture  ?  Is  he  trying  to  run  a  motion 
through  under  cover  of  a  cloud  of  words,  es- 
saying the  well-known  "  cuttle-fish  trick  "  of 
the  West  ? 

He  abandons  England  for  a  while,  andnow 
we  get  a  glimpse  of  the  cloven  hoof  in  a  casual 
reference  to  Hindus  and  Mahomedans.  The 
Hindus  will  lose  nothing  by  the  complete  es- 
tablishment of  plurality  of  votes.  They  will 
have  the  control  of  their  own  wards  as  they 
used  to  have.  So  there  is  race-feeling,  to  be 
explained  away,  even  among  these  beautiful 
desks.  Scratch  the  Council,  and  you  come  to 
the  old,  old  trouble.  The  black  frock-coat 
sits  down,  and  a  keen-eyed,  black  bearded 
Englishman  rises  with  one  hand  in  his  pocket 
to  explain  his  views  on  an  alteration  of  the 
vote  qualification.  The  idea  of  an  amend- 
ment seems  to  have  just  struck  him.  He 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     25 

hints  that  he  will  bring  it  forward  later  on. 
He  is  academical  like  the  others,  but  not  half 
so  good  a  speaker.  All  this  is  dreary  beyond 
words.  Why  do  they  talk  and  talk  about 
owners  and  occupiers  and  burgesses  in  Eng- 
land and  the  growth  of  autonomous  institu- 
tions when  the  city,  the  great  city,  is  here  cry- 
ing out  to  be  cleansed  ?  What  has  England  to 
do  with  Calcutta's  evil,  and  why  should  En- 
glishmen be  forced  to  wander  through  mazes 
of  unprofitable  argument  against  men  who 
cannot  understand  the  iniquity  of  dirt? 

A  pause  follows  the  black-bearded  man's 
speech.  Rises  another  native,  a  heavily- 
built  Babu,  in  a  black  gown  and  a  strange 
head-dress.  A  snowy  white  strip  of  cloth  is 
thrown  j/iarun-vtise  over  his  shoulders.  His 
voice  is  high,  and  not  always  under  control. 
He  begins  :  "  I  will  try  to  be  as  brief  as  pos- 
sible." This  is  ominous.  By  the  way,  in 
Council  there  seems  to  be  no  necessity  for  a 
form  of  address.  The  orators  plunge  in 
mcdias  res,  and  only  when  they  are  well 
launched  throw  an  occasional  "  Sir  "  toward 
Sir  Steuart  Bayley,  who  sits  with  one  leg 
doubled  under  him  and  a  dry  pen  in  his  hand. 
This  speaker  is  no  good.  He  talks,  but  he 
says  nothing,  and  he  only  knows  where  he  is 
drifting  to.  He  says:  "We  must  remember 
that  we  are  legislating  for  the  Metropolis  of 
India,  and  therefore  we  should  borrow  our 
institutions  from  large  English  towns,  and  not 
from  parochial  institutions."  If  you  think  for 


26     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

a  minute,  that  shows  a  large  and  healthy 
knowledge  of  the  history  of  Local  Self-Gov- 
eminent.  It  also  reveals  the  attitude  of-Cal- 
cutta.  If  the  city  thought  less  about  itself  as 
a  metropolis  and  more  as  a  midden,  its  state 
would  be  better.  The  speaker  talks  patroniz- 
ingly of  "  my  friend,"  alluding  to  the  black 
frock-coat.  Then  he  flounders  afresh,  and  his 
voice  gallops  up  the  gamut  as  he  declares, 
"and  therefore  that  makes  all  the  difference." 
He  hints  vaguely  at  threats,  something  to  do 
with  the  Hindus  and  the  Mahomedans,  but 
what  he  means  it  is  difficult  to  discover. 
Here,  however,  is  a  sentence  taken  verbatim. 
It  is  not  likely  to  appear  in  this  form  in  the 
Calcutta  papers.  The  black  frock-coat  had 
said  that  if  a  wealthy  native  "  had  eight 
votes  to  his  credit,  his  vanity  would  prompt 
him  to  go  to  the  polling-booth,  because  he 
would  feel  better  than  half-a-dozen  gharri- 
wans  or  petty  traders."  (Fancy  allowing  a 
gharri-wan  to  vote  !  He  has  yet  to  learn  how 
to  drive  !)  Hereon  the  gentleman  with  the 
white  cloth  :  "  Then  the  complaint  is  that  in- 
fluential voters  will  not  take  the  trouble  to 
vote.  In  my  humble  opinion,  if  that  be  so, 
adopt  voting  papers.  That  is  the  way  to  meet 
them.  In  the  same  way — The  Calcutta 
Trades'  Association — you  abolish  all  plurality 
of  votes :  and  that  is  the  way  to  meet  them.'* 
Lucid,  is  it  not?  Up  flies  the  irresponsible 
voice,  and  delivers  this  statement:  "In  the 
election  for  the  House  of  Commons  plurality 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     27 

are  allowed  for  persons  having  interest  in  dif- 
ferent districts."  Then  hopeless,  hopeless  fog. 
It  is  a  great  pity  that  India  ever  heard  of 
anybody  higher  than  the  heads  of  the  Civil 
Service.  The  country  appeals  from  the  Chota 
to  the  Burra  Sahib  all  too  readily  as  it  is. 
Once  more  a  whiff.  The  gentleman  gives  a 
defiant  jerk  of  his  shoulder-cloth,  and  sits 
down. 

Then  Sir  Steuart  Bayley:  "The  question 
before  the  Council  is,"  etc.  There  is  a  ripple 
of  "  Ayes  "  and  "  Noes,  and  the  "  Noes  "  have 
it,  whatever  it  may  be.  The  black-bearded 
gentleman  springs  his  amendment  about  the 
voting  qualifications.  A  large  senator  in  a 
white  waistcoat,  and  with  a  most  genial  smile, 
rises  and  proceeds  to  smash  up  the  amend- 
ment. Can't  see  the  use  of  it.  Calls  it  in 
effect  rubbish.  The  black  frock-coat  rises  to 
explain  his  friend's  amendment,  and  inciden- 
tally makes  a  funny  little  slip.  He  is  a  knight, 
and  his  friend  has  been  newly  knighted.  He 
refers  to  him  as  "Mister."  The  black  choga, 
he  who  spoke  first  of  all,  speaks  again,  and 
talks  of  the  "  sojorner  who  comes  here  fora 
little  time,  and  then  leaves  the  land."  Well 
it  is  for  the  black  choga  that  the  sojourner 
does  come,  or  there  would  be  no  comfy  places 
wherein  to  talk  about  the  power  that  can  be 
measured  by  wealth  and  the  intellect  "  which, 
sir,  I  submit,  cannot  be  so  measured."  The 
amendment  is  lost,  and  trebly  and  quadruply 
lost  is  the  listener.  In  the  name  of  sanity  and 


28     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

to  preserve  the  tattered  shirt  tails  of  a  torn 
illusion,  let  us  escape.  This  is  the  Calcutta 
Municipal  Bill.  They  have  been  at  it  for 
several  Saturdays.  Last  Saturday  Sir  Steuart 
Bayley  pointed  out  that  at  their  present  rate 
they  would  be  about  two  years  in  getting  it 
through.  Now  they  will  sit  till  dusk,  unless 
Sir  SteuartBayley,  who  wants  to  see  Lord  Con- 
nemara  off,  puts  up  the  black  frock-coat  to 
move  an  adjournment.  It  is  not  good  to  see 
a  Government  close  to.  This  leads  to  the 
formation  of  blatantly  self-satisfied  judgments, 
which  may  be  quite  as  wrong  as  the  cramping 
system  with  which  we  have  encompassed 
ourselves.  And  in  the  streets  outside  English- 
men summarize  the  situation  brutally,  thus  : 
"The  whole  thing  is  a  farce.  Time  is  money 
to  us.  We  can't  stick  out  those  everlasting1 
speeches  in  the  municipality.  The  natives 
choke  us  off,  but  we  know  that  if  things  get  too 
bad  the  Government  will  step  in  and  interfere, 
and  so  we  worry  along  somehow."  Meantime 
Calcutta  continues  to  cry  out  for  the  bucket 
and  the  broom. 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     29 
CHAPTER  IV. 

ON  THE  BANKS   OF  THE  HUGLI. 

THE  clocks  of  the  city  have  struck  two. 
Where  can  a  man  get  food  ?  Calcutta  is  not 
rich  in  respect  of  dainty  accommodation.  You 
can  stay  your  stomach  at  Peliti's  or  Bonsard's 
but  their  shops  are  not  to  be  found  in  Hasting 
Street,  or  in  the  places  where  brokers  fly  to 
and  fro  in  office-jauns,  sweating  and  growing 
visibly  rich.  There  must  be  some  sort  of 
entertainment  where  sailors  congregate. 
"  Honest  Bombay  Jack  "  supplies  nothing  but 
Burma  cheroots  and  whisky  in  liquor  glasses, 
but  in  Lai  Bazar,  not  far  from  "  The  Sailors ' 
Coffee-rooms,"  a  board  gives  bold  advertise- 
ment that  "  officers  and  seamen  can  find  good 
quarters."  In  evidence  a  row  of  neat  officers 
and  seamen  are  sitting  on  a  bench  by  the 
"  hotel  "  door  smoking.  There  is  an  almost 
military  likeness  in  their  clothes.  Perhaps 
"  Honest  Bombay  Jack  "  only  keeps  one  kind 
of  felt  hat  and  one  brand  of  suit.  When  Jack 
of  the  mercantile  marine  is  sober,  he  is  very 
sober.  When  he  is  drunk  he  is — but  ask  the 
river  police  what  a  lean,  mad  Yankee  can  do 
with  his  nails  and  teeth.  These  gentlemen 
smoking  on  the  bench  are  impassive  almost  as 
Red  Indians.  Their  attitudes  are  unrestrained, 


30     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

and  they  do  not  wear  braces.  Nor,  it  would 
appear  from  the  bill  of  fare,  are  they  particular 
as  to  what  they  eat  when  they  attend  tablt 
d'hote.  The  fare  is  substantial  and  the  regula- 
tion peg — every  house  has  its  own  depth  of 
peg  if  you  will  refrain  from  stopping  Gany- 
mede— something  to  wonder  at.  Three  fingers 
and  a  trifle  over  seems  to  be  the  use  of  the 
officers  and  seamen  who  are  talking  so  quietly 
in  the  doorway.  One  says — he  has  evidently 
finished  a  long  story — "  and  so  he  shipped  for 
four  pound  ten  with  a  first  mate's  certificate 
and  all,  and  that  was  in  a  German  barque." 
Another  spits  with  conviction  and  says  genially, 
without  raising  his  voice  :  "  That  was  a  hell 
of  a  ship;  who  knows  her?"  No  answer 
from  the  panchayet,  but  a  Dane  or  a  German 
wants  to  know  whether  theMyra  is  "  up"  yet. 
A  dry,  red-haired  man  gives  her  exact  position 
in  the  river — (How  in  the  world  can  he  know  ?) 
— and  the  probable  hour  of  her  arrival.  The 
grave  debate  drifts  into  a  discussion  of  a  re- 
cent river  accident,  whereby  a  big  steamer  was 
damaged,  and  had  to  put  back  and  discharge 
cargo.  A  burly  gentleman  who  is  taking  a  con- 
stitutional down  Lai  Bazar  strolls  up  and  says  : 
"  I  tell  you  she  fouled  her  own  chain  with  her 
own  forefoot.  Hev  you  seen  the  plates  ?  " 

"No."     Then  how  the can  any like 

you say  what  it well  was  ?  "    He  passes 

on,  having  delivered  his  highly-flavored  opin- 
ion without  heat  or  passion.  No  one  seems  to 
resent  the  expletives. 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     31 

Let  us  get  down  to  the  river  and  see  this 
stamp  of  men  more  thoroughly.  Clarke  Rus- 
sell has  told  us  that  their  lives  are  hard 
enough  in  all  conscience.  What  are  theit 
pleasures  and  diversions  ?  The  Port  Office> 
where  lives  the  gentlemen  who  make  improve- 
ments in  the  Port  of  Calcutta,  ought  to  supply 
information.  It  stands  large  and  fair,  and 
built  in  an  orientalized  manner  after  the 
Italians  at  the  corner  of  Fairlie  Place  upon 
the  great  Strand  Road,  and  a  continual  clamor 
of  traffic  by  land  and  by  sea  goes  up  through- 
out the  day  and  far  into  the  night  against  its 
windows.  This  is  a  place  to  enter  more  rev- 
erently than  the  Bengal  Legislative  Council 
for  it  houses  the  direction  of  the  uncertain 
Hugli  down  to  the  Sandheads,  owns  enormous 
wealth,  and  spends  huge  sums  on  the  front- 
aging  of  river  banks,  the  expansion  of  jetties, 
and  the  manufacture  of  docks  costing  two 
hundred  lakhs  of  rupees.  Two  million  tons 
of  sea-going  shippage  yearly  find  their  way 
up  and  down  the  river  by  the  guidance  of  the 
Port  Office,  and  the  men  of  the  Port  Office 
know  more  than  it  is  good  for  men  to  hold  in 
their  heads.  They  can  without  reference  to 
telegraphic  bulletins  give  the  position  of  all 
the  big  steamers,  coming  up  or  going  down, 
from  the  Hugli  to  the  sea,  day  by  day  with 
their  tonnage,  the  names  of  their  captains  and 
the  nature  of  their  cargo.  Looking  out  from 
the  veranda  of  their  officer  over  a  lancer-regi- 
ment of  masts,  they  can  declare  truthfully  tha 


32     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

name  of  every  ship  within  eye-scope,  with  the 
day  and  hour  when  she  will  depart. 

In  a  room  at  the  bottom  of  the  building 
lounge  big  men,  carefully  dressed.  Now 
there  is  a  type  of  face  which  belongs  almost 
exclusively  to  Bengal  Cavalry  officers — majors 
for  choice.  Everybody  knows  the  bronzed, 
black-mustached,  clear-speaking  Native  Cav- 
alry officer.  He  exists  unnaturally  in  novels, 
and  naturally  on  the  frontier.  These  men  in 
the  big  room  have  its  caste  of  face  so  strongly 
marked  that  one  marvels  what  officers  are 
doing  by  the  river.  "  Have  they  come  to  book 
passengers  for  home?"  "Those  men! 
They're  pilots.  Some  of  them  draw  between 
two  and  three  thousand  rupees  a  month.  They 
are  responsible  for  half-a-million  pounds' 
worth  of  cargo  sometimes."  They  certainly 
are  men,  and  they  carry  themselves  as  such. 
They  confer  together  by  twos  and  threes,  and 
appeal  frequently  to  shipping  lists. 

"Isn't  a.  pilot  a  man  who  always  wears  a 
peajacket  and  shouts  through  a  speaking- 
trumpet  ?  "  "  Well,  you  can  ask  those  gentle- 
men if  you  like.  You've  got  your  notions 
from  home  pilots.  Ours  aren't  that  kind  ex- 
actly. They  are  a  picked  service,  as  carefully 
weeded  as  the  Indian  Civil.  Some  of  'em 
have  brothers  in  it,  and  some  belong  to  the 
old  Indian  army  families."  But  they  are  not 
all  equally  well  paid.  The  Calcutta  papers 
sometimes  echo  the  groans  of  the  junior  pil- 
ots who  are  not  allowed  the  handling  of  ships 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     33 

over  a  certain  tonnage.  As  it  is  yearly  grow- 
ing cheaper  to  build  one  big  steamer  than  two 
little  ones,  these  juniors  are  crowded  out,  and, 
while  the  seniors  get  their  thousands,  some  of 
the  youngsters  make  at  the  end  of  one  month 
exactly  thirty  rupees.  This  is  a  grievance 
with  them  ;  and  it  seems  well-founded. 

In  the  flats  above  the  pilots'  room  are 
hushed  and  chapel-like  offices,  all  sumptuously 
fitted,  where  Englishmen  write  and  telephone 
and  telegraph,  and  deft  Babus  forever  draw 
maps  of  the  shifting  Hugli.  Any  hope  of 
understanding  the  work  of  the  Port  Commis- 
sioners is  thoroughly  dashed  by  being  taken 
through  the  Port  maps  of  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury past.  Men  have  played  with  the  Hugli 
as  children  play  with  a  gutter-runnel,  and,  in 
return,  the  Hugli  once  rose  and  played  with 
men  and  ships  till  the  Strand  Road  was  littered 
with  the  raffle  and  the  carcasses  of  big  ships. 
There  are  photos  on  the  walls  of  the  cyclone 
of  '64,  when  the  Thunder  came  inland  and  sat 
upon  an  American  barque,  obstructing  all  the 
traffic.  Very  curious  are  these  photos,  and 
almost  impossible  to  believe.  How  can  a  big, 
strong  steamer  have  her  three  masts  razed  to 
deck  level  ?  How  can  a  heavy,  country  boat 
be  pitched  on  to  the  poop  of  a  high-walled 
liner  ?  and  how  can  the  side  be  bodily  torn  out 
of  a  ship  ?  The  photos  say  that  all  these  things 
are  possible,  and  men  aver  that  a  cyclone  may 
come  again  and  scatter  the  craft  like  chaff. 
Outside  the  Port  Office  are  the  export  and  in* 
3 


34     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

port  sheds,  buildings  that  can  hold  a  ship's 
cargo  a-piece,  all  standingon  reclaimed  ground. 
Here  be  several  strong  smells,  a  mass  of  rail- 
way lines,  and  a  multitude  of  men.  "  Do  you 
see  where  that  trolly  is  standing,  behind  the 
big  P.  and  O.  berth  ?  In  that  place  as  nearly  as 
maybe  the  Govindpurwent  down  about  twenty 
years  ago,  and  began  to  shift  out !  "  "  But 
that  is  solid  ground."  "  She  sank  there,  and 
the  next  tide  made  a  scour-hole  on  one  side 
of  her.  The  returning  tide  knocked  her  into 
it.  Then  the  mud  made  up  behind  her.  Next 
tide  the  business  was  repeated — always  the 
scour-hole  in  the  mud  and  the  filling  up  be- 
hind her.  So  she  rolled  and  was  pushed  out 
and  out  until-  she  got  in  the  way  of  the  ship- 
ping right  out  yonder,  and  we  had  to  blow  her 
up.  When  a  ship  sinks  in  mud  or  quicksand 
she  regularly  digs  her  own  grave  and  wriggles 
herself  into  it  deeper  and  deeper  till  she 
reaches  moderately  solid  stuff.  Then  she 
sticks."  Horrible  idea,  is  it  not,  to  go  down 
and  down  with  each  tide  into  the  foul  Hugli 
mud  ? 

Close  to  the  Port  Offices  is  the  Shipping 
Office,  where  the  captains  engage  their  crews. 
The  men  must  produce  their  discharges  from 
their  last  ships  in  the  presence  of  the  ship- 
ping master,  or  as  they  call  him — "The 
Deputy  Shipping."  He  passes  them  as  cor- 
rect after  having  satisfied  himself  that  they 
are  not  deserters  from  other  ships,  and  they 
then  sign  articles  for  the  voyage.  This  is  the 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     35 

ceremony,  beginning  with  the  "  dearly  be- 
loved "  of  the  crew-hunting  captain  down  to 
the  "  amazement "  of  the  identified  deserter. 
There  is  a  dingy  building,  next  door  to  the 
Sailors'  Home,  at  whose  gate  stand  the  cast- 
ups  of  all  the  seas  in  all  manner  of  raiment. 
There  are  Seedee  boys,  Bombay  serangs  and 
Madras  fishermen  of  the  salt  villages,  Malays 
who  insist  upon  marrying  native  women  grow 
jealous  and  run  amok  :  Malay-Hindus,  Hindu- 
Malay-whites,  Burmese,  Burma-whites,  Bur- 
ma-native-whites, Italians  with  gold  earrings 
and  a  thirst  for  gambling,  Yankees  of  all  the 
States,  with  Mulattoes  and  pure  buck-niggers, 
red  and  rough  Danes,  Cingalese,  Cornish 
boys  who  seem  fresh  taken  from  the  plow- 
tail  "  corn-stalks  "  from  colonial  ships  where 
they  got  four  pound  ten  a  month  as  seamen, 
tun-bellied  Germans,  Cockney  mates  keeping 
a  little  aloof  from  the  crowd  and  talking  in 
knots  together,  unmistakable  "Tommies" 
who  have  tumbled  into  seafaring  life  by  some 
mistake,  cockatoo-tufted  Welshmen  spitting 
and  swearing  like  cats,  broken-down  loafers, 
gray-headed,  penniless,  and  pitiful,  swagger- 
ing boys,  and  very  quiet  men  with  gashes  and 
cuts  on  their  faces.  It  is  an  ethnological 
museum  where  all  the  specimens  are  playing 
comedies  and  tragedies.  The  head  of  it  all 
is  the  "Deputy  Shipping,"  and  he  sits,  sup- 
ported by  an  English  policeman  whose  fists 
are  knobby,  in  a  great  Chair  of  State.  The 
"  Deputy  Shipping  "  knows  all  the  iniquity  of 


36     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

the  riverside,  all  the  ships,  all  the  captains, 
and  a  fair  amount  of  the  men.  He  is  fenced 
off  from  the  crowd  by  a  strong  wooden  rail- 
ing, behind  which  are  gathered  those  who 
"  stand  and  wait,"  the  unemployed  of  the  mer- 
cantile marine.  They  have  had  their  spree — 
poor  devils — and  now  they  will  go  to  sea 
again  on  as  low  a  wage  as  three  pound  ten  a 
month,  to  fetch  up  at  the  end  in  some  Shang- 
hai stew  Oi'  San  Francisco  hell.  They  have 
turned  their  backs  on  the  seductions  of  the 
Howrah  boarding-houses  and  the  delights  of 
Colootollah.  If  Fate  will,  "  Nightingales  " 
will  know  them  no  more  for  a  season,  and 
their  successors  may  paint  Collinga  Bazar 
vermilion.  But  what  captain  will  take  some 
of  these  battered,  shattered  wrecks  whose 
hands  shake  and  whose  eyes  are  red  ? 

Enter  suddenly  a  bearded  captain,  who  has 
made  his  selection  from  the  crowd  on  a  pre- 
vious day,  and  now  wants  to  get  his  men 
passed.  He  is  not  fastidious  in  his  choice. 
His  eleven  seem  a  tough  lot  for  such  a  mild- 
eyed,  civil-spoken  man  to  manage.  But  the 
captain  in  the  Shipping  Office  and  the  captain 
on  the  ship  are  two  different  things.  He 
brings  his  crew  up  to  the  "  Deputy  Ship- 
ping's "  bar,  and  hands  in  their  greasy,  tattered 
discharges.  But  the  heart  of  the  "  Deputy 
Shipping  "  is  hot  within  him,  because,  two  days 
ago,  a  Howrah  crimp  stole  a  whole  crew  from 
a  down-dropping  ship,  insomuch  that  the  cap- 
tain had  to  come  back  and  whip  up  a  new 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     37 

crew  at  one  o'clock  in  the  day.  Evil  will  it 
be  if  the  "  Deputy  Shipping ''  finds  one  of 
these  bounty-jumpers  in  the  chosen  crew  of 
the  Bknkindoon,  let  us  say. 

The  "  Deputy    Shipping "    tells   the   story 
with    heat.     "  I   didn't    know  they  did   such 
things  in  Calcutta,"  says   the  captain.     "Do 
such  things !     They'd  steal  the  eye-teeth  out 
of  your  head  there,  Captain."     He  picks  up  a 
discharge  and  calls  for  Michael  Donelly,  who 
is  a    loose-knit,  vicious-looking  Irish-Ameri- 
can who  chews.     "  Stand  up.  man,  stand  up  !  " 
Michael   Donelly  wants  to    lean   against  the 
desk,  and  the  English   policeman  won't  have 
it.     "What   was    your    last   ship?"     "Fairy 
Queen."     «  When  did  you  leave  her  ?  "   "  'Bout 
'leven  days."     "  Captain's  name  ?  "    "  Flahy." 
"  That'll  do.      Next  man  :  Jules    Anderson." 
Jules  Anderson  is  a  Dane.     His  statements 
tally   with   the    discharge-certificate     of   the 
United  States,  as  the  Eagle  attesteth.      He  is 
passed  and  falls  back.     Slivey,  the  English- 
man, and  David,  a  huge  plum-colored  negro 
who  ships  as  cook,  are  also  passed.     Then 
comes  Bassompra,  a  little  Italian,  who  speaks 
English.     "  What's  your  last  ship?"     "Ferdi- 
nand" "  No,  after  that  ?  "  "  German  barque." 
Bassompra   does   not   look   happy.     "  When 
did   she  sail?"     "About  three   weeks   ago." 
"  What's    her  name  ?  "       "  Uaidfe."     "  You 
deserted    from    her  ?  "     "  Yes,  but  she's   left 
port."     The  "  Deputy  Shipping"  runs  rapidly 
through  a  shipping-list,  throws  it  down  with 


38     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

a  bang.  "  'Twon't  do.  No  German  barque 
Haidee  here  for  three  months.  How  do  I 
know  you  don't  belong  to  tint  Jackson' s  crew? 
Cap'ain,  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  ship  another 
man.  He  must  stand  over.  Take  the  rest 
away  and  make  'em  sign." 

The  bead-eyed  Bassompra  seems  to  have 
lost  his  chance  of  a  voyage,  and  his  case  will 
be  inquired  into.  The  captain  departs  with 
his  men  and  they  sign  articles  for  the  voyage, 
while  the  "Deputy  Shipping"  tells  strange 
tales  of  the  sailorman's  life.  "  They'll  quit  a 
good  ship  for  the  sake  of  a  spree,  and  catch 
on  again  at  three  pound  ten,  and  by  Jove, 
they'll  let  their  skippers  pay  'em  at  ten  rupees 
to  the  sovereign — poor  beggars  !  As  soon  as 
the  money's  gone  they'll  ship,  but  not  before. 
Every  one  under  rank  of  captain  engages  here. 
The  competition  makes  first  mates  ship  some- 
times for  five  pounds  or  as  low  as  four  ten  a 
month."  (The  gentleman  in  the  boarding- 
house  was  right,  you  see.)  "  A  first  mate's 
wages  are  seven  ten  or  eight,  and  foreign  cap- 
tains ship  for  twelve  pounds  a  month  and 
bring  their  own  small  stores — everything,  that 
is  to  say,  except  beef,  peas,  flour,  coffee  and 
molasses." 

These  things  are  not  pleasant  to  listen  to 
while  the  hungry-eyed  men  in  the  bad  clothes 
lounge  and  scratch  and  loaf  behind  the  rail- 
ing. What  comes  to  them  in  the  end  ?  They 
die,  it  seems,  though  that  is  not  altogether 
strange.  They  die  at  sea  in  strange  and  hor- 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     39 

rible  ways  ;  they  die,  a  few  of  them,  in  the 
Kintals,  being  lost  and  suffocated  in  the  great 
sink  of  Calcutta ;  they  die  in  strange  places 
by  the  waterside,  and  the  Hugli  takes  them 
away  under  the  mooring  chains  and  the  buoys, 
and  casts  them  up  on  the  sands  below,  if  the 
River  Police  have  missed  the  capture.  They 
sail  the  sea  because  they  must  live  ;  and  there 
is  no  end  to  their  toil.  Very,  very  few  find 
haven  of  any  kind,  and  the  earth,  whose  ways 
they  do  not  understand,  is  cruel  to  them, 
\vhen  they  walk  upon  it  to  drink  and  be 
merry  after  the  manner  of  beasts.  Jack 
ashore  is  a  pretty  thing  when  he  is  in  a  book 
or  in  the  blue  jacket  of  the  Navy.  Mercan- 
tile Jack  is  not  so  lovely.  Later  on,  we  will 
see  where  his  "  sprees  "  lead  him. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WITH  THE  CALCUTTA  POLICE. 

"  The  City  was  of  Night — perchance  of  Death, 
But  certainly  of  Night." 

—  The  City  of  Dreadful  Night. 

IN  the  beginning,  the  Police  were  respon- 
sible. They  said  in  a  patronizing  way  that, 
merely  as  a  matter  of  convenience,  they  would 
prefer  to  take  a  wanderer  round  the  great 


40     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

city  themselves,  sooner  than  let  him  contract 
a  broken  head  on  his  own  account  in  the 
slums.  They  said  that  there  were  places  and 
places  where  a  white  man,  unsupported  by 
the  arm  of  the  law,  would  be  robbed  and 
mobbed  ;  and  that  there  were  other  places 
where  drunken  seamen  would  make  it  very 
unpleasant  for  him.  There  was  a  night  fixed 
for  the  patrol,  but  apologies  were  offered  be- 
forehand for  the  comparative  insignificance  of 
the  tour. 

"  Come  up  to  the  fire  lookout  in  the  first 
place,  and  then  you'll  be  able  to  see  the  city." 
This  was  at  No.  22,  Lai  Bazar,  which  is  the 
headquarters  of  the  Calcutta  Police,  the  center 
of  the  great  web  of  telephone  wires  where 
Justice  sits  all  day  and  all  night  looking  after 
one  million  people  and  a  floating  population 
of  one  hundred  thousand.  But  her  work  shall 
be  dealt  with  later  on.  The  fire  lookout  is  a 
little  sentry-box  on  the  top  of  the  three-storied 
police  offices.  Here  a  native  watchman  waits 
always,  ready  to  give  warning  to  the  brigade 
below  if  the  smoke  rises  by  day  or  the  flames 
by  night  in  any  ward  of  the  city.  From  this 
eyrie,  in  the  warm  night,  one  hears  the  heart 
of  Calcutta  beating.  Northward,  the  city 
stretches  away  three  long  miles,  with  three 
more  miles  of  suburbs  beyond,  to  Dum-Dum 
and  Barrackpore.  The  lamplit  dusk  on  this 
side  is  full  of  noises  and  shouts  and  smells. 
Close  to  the  Police  Office,  jovial  mariners  at 
the  sailors'  coffee-shop  are  roaring  hymns 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     41 

Southerly,  the  city's  confused  lights  give  place 
to  the  orderly  lamp-rows  of  the  maidan  and 
Chouringhi,  where  the  respectabilities  live 
and  the  Police  have  very  little  to  do.  From 
the  east  goes  up  to  the  sky  the  clamor  of 
Sealdah,  the  rumble  of  the  trams,  and  the 
voices  of  all  Bow  Bazar  chaffering  and  mak- 
ing merry.  Westward  are  the  business  quar- 
ters, hushed  now,  the  lamps  of  the  shipping 
on  the  river,  and  the  twinkling  lights  on  the 
Howrah  side.  It  is  a  wonderful  sight — this 
Pisgah  view  of  a  huge  city  resting  after  the 
labors  of  the  day.  "  Does  the  noise  of  traffic 
goon  all  through  the  hot  weather?"  "Of 
course.  The  hot  months  are  the  busiest  in 
the  year  and  money's  tightest.  You  should 
see  the  brokers  cutting  about  at  that  season. 
Calcutta  can't  stop,  my  dear  sir."  "What 
happens  then  ? "  "  Nothing  happens  ;  the 
death-rate  goes  up  a  little.  That's  all ! " 
Even  in  February,  the  weather  would,  up- 
country,  be  called  muggy  and  stifling,  but 
Calcutta  is  convinced  that  it  is  her  cold  sea- 
son. The  noises  of  the  city  grow  perceptibly  ; 
it  is  the  night  side  of  Calcutta  waking  up  and 
going  abroad.  Jack  in  the  sailors'  coffee-shop 
is  singing  joyously :  "  Shall  we  gather  at  the 
River — the  beautiful,  the  beautiful,  the 
River  ? "  What  an  incongruity  there  is  about 
his  selections.  However,  that  it  amuses  be- 
fore it  shocks  the  listeners,  is  not  to  be 
doubted.  An  Englishman,  far  from  his  native 
land  is  liable  to  become  careless,  and  it  would 


42     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

be  remarkable  if  he  did  otherwise  in  ill-smell- 
ing Calcutta.  There  is  a  clatter  of  hoofs  in 
the  courtyard  below.  Some  of  the  Mounted 
Police  have  come  in  from  somewhere  or  other 
out  of  the  great  darkness.  A  clog-dance  of 
iron  hoof  follows,  and  an  Englishman's  voice 
is  heard  soothing  an  agitated  horse  who  seems 
to  be  standing  on  his  hind  legs.  Some  of  the 
Mounted  Police  are  going  out  into  the  great 
darkness.  "  What's  on  ?  "  "  Walk  round  at 
Government  House.  The  Reserve  men  are 
being  formed  up  below.  They're  calling  the 
roll."  The  Reserve  men  are  all  English,  and 
big  English  at  that.  They  form  up  and  tramp 
out  of  the  courtyard  to  line  Government  Place, 
and  see  that  Mrs.  Lollipop's  brougham  does 
not  get  smashed  up  by  Sirdar  Chuckerbutty 
Bahadur's  lumbering  C-spring  barouche  with 
the  two  raw  Walers.  Very  military  men  are 
the  Calcutta  European  Police  in  their  set-up, 
and  he  who  knows  their  composition  knows 
some  startling  stories  of  gentlemen-rankers  and 
the  like.  They  are,  despite  the  wearing  cli- 
mate they  work  in  and  the  wearing  work  they 
do,  as  fine  five-score  of  Englishmen  as  you 
shall  find  east  of  Suez. 

Listen  for  a  moment  from  the  fire  lookout  to 
the  voices  of  the  night,  and  you  will  see  why 
they  must  be  so.  Two  thousand  sailors  of  fifty 
nationalities  are  adrift  in  Calcutta  every 
Sunday,  and  of  these  perhaps  two  hundred 
are  distinctly  the  worse  for  liquor.  There  is 
a  mild  row  going  on,  even  now,  somewhere  at 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     43 

the  back  of  Bow  Bazar,  which  at  nightfall 
fills  with  sailor-men  who  have  a  wonderful 
gift  of  falling  foul  of  the  native  population. 
To  keep  the  Queen's  peace  is  of  course  only  a 
small  portion  of  Police  duty,  but  it  is  trying. 
The  burly  president  of  the  lock-up  for 
European  drunks — Calcutta  central  lock-up  is 
worth  seeing — rejoices  in  a  sprained  thumb  just 
now,  and  has  to  do  his  work  left-handed  in  con° 
sequence.  But  his  left  hand  is  a  marvelously 
persuasive  one,  and  when  on  duty  his  sleeves 
are  turned  up  to  the  shoulder  that  the  jovial 
mariner  may  see  that  there  is  no  deception. 
The  president's  labors  are  handicapped  in  that 
the  road  of  sin  to  the  lock-up  runs  through  a 
grimy  little  garden — the  brick  paths  are  worn 
deep  with  the  tread  of  many  drunken  feet — • 
where  a  man  can  give  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
by  sticking  his  toes  into  the  ground  and  get- 
ting mixed  up  with  the  shrubs.  "  A  straight 
run  in"  would  be  much  more  convenient  both 
for  the  president  and  the  drunk.  Generally 
speaking — and  here  Police  experience  is  pretty 
much  the  same  all  over  the  civilized  world — a 
woman  drunk  is  a  good  deal  worse  than  a  man 
drunk.  She  scratches  and  bites  like  a  China- 
man and  swears  like  several  fiends.  Strange 
people  may  be  unearthed  in  the  lock-ups. 
Here  is  a  perfectly  true  story,  not  three  weeks 
old.  A  visitor,  an  unofficial  one,  wandered 
into  the  native  side  of  the  spacious  accommoda- 
tion provided  for  those  who  have  gone  or  done 
wrong.  A  wild-eyed  Babu  rose  from  the  fixed 


44     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

charpoy  and  said  in  the  best  of  English  : 
*'  Good-morning,  sir."  "  Good-morning  ;  who 
are  you,  and  what  are  you  in  for  ? "  Then 
the  Babu,  in  one  breath  :  "  I  would  have  you 
know  that  I  do  not  go  to  prison  as  a  criminal 
but  as  a  reformer.  You've  read  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefieldl"  "  Ye-es."  "Well,  /am  the 
Vicar  of  Bengal — at  least  that's  what  I  call 
myself."  The  visitor  collapsed.  He  had  not 
nerve  enough  to  continue  the  conversation. 
Then  said  the  voice  of  the  authority  :  "  He's 
down  in  connection  with  a  cheating  case  at 
Serampore.  May  be  shamming.  But  he'll 
be  looked  to  in  time." 

The  best  place  to  hear  about  the  Police 
is  the  fire  lookout.  From  that  eyrie  one  can 
see  how  difficult  must  be  the  work  of  control 
over  the  great,  growling  beast  of  a  city.  By 
all  means  let  us  abuse  the  Police,  but  let  us 
see  what  the  poor  wretches  have  to  do  with 
their  three  thousand  natives  and  one  hundred 
Englishmen.  From  Howrah  and  Bally  and 
the  other  suburbs  at  least  a  hundred  thousand 
people  come  in  to  Calcutta  for  the  day  and 
leave  at  night.  Also  Chandernagore  is  handy 
for  the  fugitive  law-breaker,  who  can  enter  in 
the  evening  and  get  away  before  the  noon  of 
the  next  day,  having  marked  his  house  and 
broken  into  it. 

"  But  how  can  the  prevalent  offense  be 
house-breaking  in  a  place  like  this?  " 
"  Easily  enough.  When  you've  seen  a  little 
of  the  city  you'll  see.  Natives  sleep  and  lie 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     45 

about  all  over  the  place,  and  whole  quarters 
are  just  so  many  rabbit-warrens.  Wait  till 
you  see  the  Machua  Bazar.  Well,  besides 
the  petty  theft  and  burglary,  we  have  heavy 
cases  of  forgery  and  fraud,  that  leaves  us 
with  our  wits  pitted  against  a  Bengali's. 
When  a  Bengali  criminal  is  working  a  fraud 
of  the  sort  he  loves,  he  is  about  the  cleverest 
soul  you  could  wish  for.  He  gives  us  cases 
a  year  long  to  unravel.  Then  there  are  the 
murders  in  the  low  houses — very  curious 
things  they  are.  You'll  see  the  house  where 
Sheikh  Babu  was  murdered  presently,  and 
you'll  understand.  The  Burra  Bazar  and  Jora 
Bagan  sections  are  the  two  worst  ones  for 
heavy  cases ;  but  Colootollah  is  the  most  ag- 
gravating. There's  Colootollah  over  yonder 
— that  patch  of  darkness  beyond  the  lights. 
That  section  is  full  of  tuppenny-ha'penny 
petty  cases,  that  keep  the  men  up  all  night 
and  make  'em  swear.  You'll  see  Colootollah, 
and  then  perhaps  you'll  understand.  Bamun 
Bustee  is  the  quietest  of  all,  and  Lai  Bazar 
and  Bow  Bazar,  as  you  can  see  for  yourself, 
are  the  rowdiest.  You've  no  notion  what  the 
natives  come  to  the  thannahs  for.  A  naukar 
will  come  in  and  want  a  summons  against  his 
master  for  refusing  him  half-an-hour's  chuti. 
I  suppose  it  does  seem  rather  revolutionary  to 
an  up-country  man,  but  they  try  to  do  it  here. 
Now  wait  a  minute,  before  we  go  down  into  the 
city  and  see  the  Fire  Brigade  turned  out. 
Business  is  slack  with  them  just  now,  but  you 


46     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

time  'em  and  see."  An  order  is  given,  and  a 
bell  strikes  softly  thrice.  There  is  an  orderly 
rush  of  men,  the  click  of  a  bolt,  a  red  fire- 
engine,  spitting  and  swearing  with  the  sparks 
flying  from  the  furnace,  is  dragged  out  of  its 
shelter.  A  huge  brake,  which  holds  supple- 
mentary horses,  men,  and  hatchets,  follows, 
and  a  hose-cart  is  the  third  on  the  list.  The 
men  push  the  heavy  things  about  as  though 
they  were  pith  toys.  Five  horses  appear. 
Two  are  shot  into  the  fire-engine,  two — mon- 
sters these — into  the  brake,  and  the  fifth,  a 
powerful  beast,  warranted  to  trot  fourteen 
miles  an  hour,  backs  into  the  hose-cart  shafts, 
The  men  clamber  up,  some  one  says  softly, 
"All  ready  there,"  and  with  an  angry  whistle 
the  fire-engine,  followed  by  the  other  two,  flies 
out  into  Lai  Bazar,  the  sparks  trailing  behind. 
Time — i  min.  40  sees.  "  They'll  find  out  it's 
a  false  alarm,  and  come  back  again  in  five 
minutes."  "Why?"  "Because  there  will 
be  no  constables  on  the  road  to  give  'em  the 
direction  of  the  fire,  and  because  the  driver 
wasn't  told  the  ward  of  the  outbreak  when  he 
went  out  !  "  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you 
can  from  this  absurd  pigeon-loft  locate  the 
wards  in  the  night-time?"  "Of  course: 
what  would  be  the  good  of  a  lookout  if  the 
man  couldn't  tell  where  the  fire  was  ?  "  "  But 
it's  all  pitchy  black,  and  the  lights  are  so  con- 
fusing." 

"Ha!  Ha!     You'll  be    more  confused  in 
ten  minutes.     You'll  have  lost  your  way  as  you 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     47 

never   lost   it    before.     You're    going  to   go 
round  Bow  Bazar  section." 

"  And  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  my  soul !  " 
Calcutta,  the  darker  portion  of  it,  does  not 
look  an  inviting  place  to  dive  into  at  night. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  CITY  OF    DREADFUL   NIGHT. 

•  And  since  they  cannot  spend  or  use  aright 
The  little  tune  here  given  them  in  trust, 
But  lavish  it  in  weary  undelight 

Of  foolish  toil,  and  trouble,  strife  and  lust— • 
They  naturally  claimeth  to  inherit 
The  Everlasting  Future — that  their  merit 

May  have   full    scope.  ...  As  surely  is  most 
just." 

— The  City  of  Dreadful  Night. 

THE  difficulty  is  to  prevent  this  account 
from  growing  steadily  unwholesome.  But  one 
cannot  rake  through  a  big  city  without  encoun- 
tering muck. 

The  Police  kept  their  word.  In  five  short 
minutes,  as  they  had  prophesied,  their  charge 
was  lost  as  he  had  never  been  lost  before. 
"  Where  are  we  now  ? "  "  Somewhere  off  the 
the  Chitpore  Road,  but  you  wouldn't  under- 
stand if  you  were  told.  Follow  now,  and  step 
pretty  much  where  we  step — there's  a  good 
deal  of  filth  hereabouts." 


48     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

The  thick,  greasy  night  shuts  in  everything. 
We  have  gone  beyond  the  ancestral  houses  of 
the  Ghoses  of  the  Boses,  beyond  the  lamps, 
the  smells,  and  the  crowd  of  Chitpore  Road, 
and  have  come  to  a  great  wilderness  of  packed 
houses — just  such  mysterious,  conspiring  ten- 
ements as  Dickens  would  have  loved.  There 
is  no  breath  of  breeze  here,  and  the  air  is  per- 
ceptibly warmer.  There  is  little  regularity  in 
the  drift,  and  the  utmost  niggardliness  in  the 
spacing  of  what,  for  want  of  a  better  name,  we 
must  call  the  streets.  If  Calcutta  keeps  such 
luxuries  as  Commissioners  of  Sewers  and  Pav- 
ing, they  die  before  they  reach  this  place.  The 
air  is  heavy  with  a  faint,  sour  stench — the 
essence  of  long-neglected  abominations — and 
it  cannot  escape  from  among  the  tall,  three- 
storied  houses.  "  This,  my  dear  sir,  is  a  per- 
fectly respectable  quarter  as  quarters  go.  That 
house  at  the  head  of  the  alley,  with  the  elabo- 
rate stucco-work  round  the  top  of  the  door,  was 
built  long  ago  by  a  celebrated  midwife.  Great 
people  used  to  live  here  once.  Now  it's  the 
— Aha !  Look  out  for  that  carriage."  A  big 
mail-phaeton  crashes  out  of  the  darkness  and, 
recklessly  driven,  disappears.  The  wonder  is 
how  it  ever  got  into  this  maze  of  narrow 
streets,  where  nobody  seems  to  be  moving,  and 
where  the  dull  throbbing  of  the  city's  life  only 
comes  faintly  and  by  snatches.  "  Now  it's  the 
what  ?  "  "  St.  John's  Wood  of  Calcutta— for 
the  rich  Babus.  That '  fitton  '  belonged  to  one 
of  them."  "Well,  it's  not  much  of  a  place  to 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     49 

look  at  ?  "  "  Don't  judge  by  appearances; 
About  here  live  the  women  who  have  beggared 
kings.  We  aren't  going  to  let  you  down  into 
unadulterated  vice  all  at  once.  You  must  see 
it  first  with  the  gilding  on — and  mind  that 
rotten  board." 

Stand  at  the  bottom  of  a  lift  and  look  up- 
ward. Then  you  will  get  both  the  size  and 
the  design  of  the  tiny  courtyard  round  which 
one  of  these  big  dark  houses  is  built.  The 
central  square  may  be  perhaps  ten  feet  every 
way,  but  the  balconies  that  run  inside  it  over- 
hang, and  seem  to  cut  away  half  the  available 
space.  To  reach  the  square  a  man  must  go- 
round  many  corners,  down  a  covered-in  way, 
and  up  and  down  two  or  three  baffling  and* 
confused  steps.  There  are  no  lamps  to  guide, 
and  the  janitors  of  the  establishment  seem  to' 
be  compelled  to  sleep  in  the  passages.  The 
central  square,  the  patio  or  whatever  it  must 
be  called,  reeks  with  the  faint,  sour  smell  which- 
finds  its  way  impartially  into  every  room. 
"  Now  you  will  understand,"  say  the  Police- 
kindly,  as  their  charge  blunders,  shin-first,  into 
a  well  dark  winding  staircase,  "  that  these  are- 
not  the  sort  of  places  to  visit  alone."  "  Who 
wants  to  ?  Of  all  the  disgusting,  inaccessible' 
dens — Holy  Cupid,  what's  this  ? " 

A  glare  of  light  on  the  stair-head,  a  clink  of  in- 
numerable bangles,  a  rustle  of  much  fine  gauze, 
and  the  Dainty  Iniquity  stands  revealed,blazing 
— literally  blazing — with  jewelry  from  head 
to  foot  Take  one  of  the  fairest  miniatures 


50     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

that  the  Delhi  painters  draw,  and  multiply  it 
by  ten ;  throw  in  one  of  Angelica  Kaufmann's 
best  portraits,  and  add  anything  that  you  can 
think  of  from  Beckford  to  Lalla  Rookh,  and 
you  will  still  fall  short  of  the  merits  of  that 
perfect  face.  For  an  instant,  even  the  grim, 
professional  gravity  of  the  police  is  relaxed 
in  the  presence  of  the  Dainty  Iniquity  with  the 
gems,  who  so  prettily  invites  every  one  to  be 
seated,  and  proffers  such  refreshments  as  she 
conceives  the  palates  of  the  barbarians  would 
prefer.  Her  Abigails  are  only  one  degree  less 
gorgeous  than  she.  Half  a  lakh,  or  fifty 
thousand  pounds'  worth — it  is  easier  to  credit 
the  latter  statement  than  the  former — are  dis- 
posed upon  her  little  body.  Each  hand  carries 
five  jeweled  rings  which  are  connected  by 
golden  chains  to  a  great  jeweled  boss  of  gold 
in  the  center  of  the  back  of  the  hand.  Ear- 
rings weighted  with  emeralds  and  pearls, 
diamond  nose-rings,  and  how  many  other 
hundred  articles  make  up  the  list  of  adorn- 
ments. English  furniture  of  a  gorgeous  and 
gimcrack  kind,  unlimited  chandeliers  and  a 
collection  of  atrocious  Continental  prints — 
something,  but  not  altogether,  like  the  glazed 
plaques  on  bon-bon  boxes — are  scattered  about 
the  house,  and  on  every  landing — let  us  trust 
this  is  a  mistake — lies,  squats,  or  loafs  a 
Bengali  who  can  talk  English  with  unholy 
fluency.  The  recurrence  suggests — only  sug- 
gests, mind — a  grim  possibility  of  the  affec- 
tation of  excessive  virtue  by  day  tempered 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     51 

with  the  sort  of  unwholesome  enjoyment  after 
dusk — this  loafing  and  lobbying  and  chatter- 
ing and  smoking,  and  unless  the  bottles  lie, 
tippling  among  the  foul-tongued  handmaidens 
of  the  Dainty  Iniquity.  How  many  men  fol- 
low this  double,  deleterious  sort  of  life?  The 
Police  are  discreetly  dumb. 

"  Now  don'f  go  talking  about  '  domiciliary 
visits'  just  because  this  one  happens  to  be  a 
pretty  woman.  We've  got  to  know  these  crea- 
tures. They  make  the  rich  man  and  the  poor 
spend  their  money;  and  when  a  man  can't  get 
money  for  'em  honestly,  he  comes  under  our 
notice.  Now  do  you  see  ?  If  there  was  any 
domiciliary  '  visit '  about  it,  the  whole  house- 
ful would  be  hidden  past  our  finding  as  soon 
as  we  turned  up  in  the  courtyard.  We're 
friends — to  a  certain  extent."  And  indeed,  it 
seemed  no  difficult  thing  to  be  friends  to  any 
extent  with  the  Dainty  Iniquity  who  was  so 
surpassingly  different  from  all  that  experience 
taught  of  the  beauty  of  the  East.  Here  was 
the  face  from  which  a  man  could  write  Lalla 
Rookhs  by  the  dozen,  and  believe  every  word 
that  he  wrote.  Hers  was  the  beauty  that 
Byron  sang  of  when  he  wrote — 

"  Remember,  if  you  come  here  alone,  the 
chances  are  that  you'll  be  clubbed,  or  stuck, 
or,  anyhow,  mobbed.  You'll  understand  that 
this  part  of  the  world  is  shut  to  Europeans — 
absolutely.  Mind  the  steps,  and  follow  on." 
The  vision  dies  out  in  the  smells  and  gross 
darkness  of  the  night,  in  evil,  time-rotten- 


52     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

brickwork,  and  another  wilderness  of  shut-up 
houses,  wherein  it  seems  that  people  do  con- 
tinually and  feebly  strum  stringed  instruments 
of  a  plaintive  and  wailsome  nature. 

Follows,  after  another  plunge  into  a  passage 
of  a  courtyard,  and  up  a  staircase,  the  appari- 
tion of  a  Fat  Vice,  in  whom  is  no  sort  of  ro- 
mance, nor  beauty,  but  unlimited  coarse  humor. 
She  too  is  studded  with  jewels,  and  her  house 
is  even  finer  than  the  house  of  the  other,  and 
more  infested  with  the  extraordinary  men  who 
speak  such  good  English  and  are  so  defer- 
ential to  the  Police.  The  Fat  Vice  has  been 
a  great  leader  of  fashion  in  her  day,  and 
stripped  a  zemindar  Raja  to  his  last  acre — in- 
so  much  that  he  ended  in  the  House  of  Cor- 
rection for  a  theft  committed  for  her  sake. 
Native  opinion  has  it  that  she  is  a  "  mon- 
strous well  preserved  woman."  On  this  point, 
as  on  some  others,  the  races  will  agree  to  differ. 

The  scene  changes  suddenly  as  a  slide  in  a 
magic  lantern.  Dainty  Iniquity  and  Fat  Vice 
slide  away  on  a  roll  of  streets  and  alleys,  each 
more  squalid  than  its  predecessor.  We  are 
"  somewhere  at  the  back  of  the  Machua 
Bazar,"  well  in  the  heart  of  the  city.  There 
are  no  houses  here — nothing  but  acres  and 
acres,  it  seems,  of  foul  wattle-and-dab  huts, 
any  one  of  which  would  be  a  disgrace  to  a 
frontier  village.  The  whole  arrangement  is  a 
neatly  contrived  germ  and  fire  trap,  reflecting 
great  credit  upon  the  Calcutta  Municipality. 

"  What  happens  when  these  pigsties  catch 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     53 

fire?"  "They're  built  up  again,"  say  the 
Police,  as  though  this  were  the  natural  order 
of  things.  "  Land  is  immensely  valuable 
here."  All  the  more  reason,  then,  to  turn 
several  Hausmanns  loose  into  the  city,  with 
instructions  to  make  barracks  for  the  popula- 
tion that  cannot  find  room  in  the  huts  and 
sleeps  in  the  open  ways,  cherishing  dogs  and 
worse,  much  worse,  in  its  unwashed  bosom. 
"  Here  is  a  licensed  coffee-shop.  This  is 
where  your  naukers  go  for  amusement  and  to 
see  nautches."  There  is  a  huge  chappar  shed 
ingeniously  ornamented  with  insecure  kero- 
sene lamps,  and  crammed  with  gharri-wans, 
khitmatgars,  small  storekeepers  and  the  like. 
Never  a  sign  of  a  European.  Why  ?  "  Be- 
cause if  an  Englishman  messed  about  here, 
he'd  get  into  trouble.  Men  don't  come  here 
unless  they're  drunk  or  have  lost  their  way." 
The  gharri-wans — they  have  the  privilege  of 
voting,  have  they  not  ? — look  peaceful  enough 
as  they  squat  on  tables  or  crowd  by  the  doors 
to  watch  the  nautch  that  is  going  forward. 
Five  pitiful  draggle-tails  are  huddled  together 
on  a  bench  under  one  of  the  lamps,  while  the 
sixth  is  squirming  and  shrieking  before  the 
impassive  crowd.  She  sings  of  love  as  un- 
derstood by  the  Oriental — the  love  that  dries 
the  heart  and  consumes  the  liver.  In  this 
place,  the  words  that  would  look  so  well  on 
paper,  have  an  evil  and  ghastly  significance. 
The  gharri-wans  stare  or  sup  tumblers  and 
cups  of  a  filthy  decoction,  and  the  kunchcnce 


54     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

howls  with  renewed  vigor  in  the  presence  of 
the  Police.  Where  the  Dainty  Iniquity  was 
hung  with  gold  and  gems,  she  is  trapped  with 
pewter  and  glass  ;  and  where  there  was  heavy 
embroidery  on  the  Fat  Vice's  dress,  defaced, 
stamped  tinsel  faithfully  reduplicates  the  pat- 
tern on  the  tawdry  robes  of  the  kunchenee. 
So  you  see,  if  one  cares  to  moralize,  they  are 
sisters  of  the  same  class. 

Two  or  three  men,  blessed  with  uneasy 
consciences,  have  quietly  slipped  out  of  the 
coffee-shop  into  the  mazes  of  the  huts  beyond. 
The  Police  laugh,  and  those  nearest  in  the 
crowd  laugh  applausively,  as  in  duty  bound. 
Perhaps  the  rabbits  grin  uneasily  when  the 
ferret  lands  at  the  bottom  of  the  burrow  and 
begins  to  clear  the  warren. 

"The  chandoo-shops  shut  up  at  six,  so  you'll 
have  to  see  opium-smoking  before  dark  some 
day.  No,  you  won't  though."  The  detective 
nose  sniffs,  and  the  detective  body  makes  for 
a  half-opened  door  of  a  hut  whence  floats  the 
fragrance  of  the  black  smoke.  Those  of  the 
inhabitants  who  are  able  to  stand  promptly 
clear  out — they  have  no  love  for  the  Police — 
and  there  remain  only  four  men  lying  down 
and  one  standing  up.  This  latter  has  a  pet 
mongoose  coiled  round  his  neck.  He  speaks 
English  fluently.  Yes,  he  has  no  fear.  It 
was  a  private  smoking  party  and — "No  busi- 
ness to-night — show  how  you  smoke  opium." 
"  Aha  !  You  want  to  see.  Very  good,  I  show. 
Hiya  1  you  " — he  kicks  a  man  on  the  floor — 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     55 

"show  how  opium-smoking."  The  kickee 
grunts  lazily  and  turns  on  his  elbow.  The 
mongoose,  always  keeping  to  the  man's  neck, 
erects  every  hair  of  its  body  like  an  angry  cat, 
and  chatters  in  its  owner's  ear.  The  lamp  for 
the  opium-pipe  is  the  only  one  in  the  room, 
and  lights  a  scene  as  wild  as  anything  in  the 
witches'  revel ;  the  mongoose  acting  as  the 
familiar  spirit.  A  voice  from  the  ground  says, 
in  tones  of  infinite  weariness  :  "  You  take  qfim, 
so" — a  long,  long  pause,  and  another  kick 
from  the  man  possessed  of  the  devil — the 
mongoose.  "  You  take  afim  ?  "  He  takes  a 
pellet  of  the  black,  treacly  stuff  on  the  end  of 
a  knitting-needle.  "  And  light  afim."  He 
plunges  the  pellet  into  the  night-light,  where 
it  swells  and  fumes  greasily.  "  And  then  you 
put  it  in  your  pipe."  The  smoking  pellet  is 
jammed  into  the  tiny  bowl  of  the  thick,  bam- 
boo-stemmed pipe,  and  all  speech  ceases,  ex- 
cept the  unearthly  noise  of  the  mongoose. 
The  man  on  the  ground  is  sucking  at  his  pipe, 
and  when  the  smoking  pellet  has  ceased  to 
smoke  will  be  half  way  to  Nibhan.  "Now 
you  go,"  says  the  man  with  the  mongoose. 
"I  am  going  smoke."  The  hut  door  closes 
upon  a  red-lit  view  of  huddled  legs  and  bodies, 
and  the  man  with  the  mongoose  sinking,  sink- 
ing on  to  his  knees,  his  head  bowed  forward, 
and  the  little  hairy  devil  chattering  on  the 
nape  of  his  neck. 

After  this  the  fetid  night  air  seems  almost 
cool,  for  the  hut  is  as  hot  as  a  furnace.     "  See 


56     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

the  pukka  chandu  shops  in  full  blast  to-mor- 
row. Now  for  Colootollah.  Come  through 
the  huts.  There  is  no  decoration  about  this 
vice." 

The  huts  now  gave  place  to  houses  very 
tall  and  spacious  and  very  dark.  But  for  the 
narrowness  of  the  streets  we  might  have  stum- 
bled upon  Chouringhi  in  the  dark.  An 
hour  and  a  half  has  passed,  and  up  to  this 
time  we  have  not  crossed  our  trail  once. 
"  You  might  knock  about  the  city  for  a  night 
and  never  cross  the  same  line.  Recollect  Cal- 
cutta isn't  one  of  your  poky  upcountry  cities 
of  a  lakh  and  a  half  of  people." 

"  How  long  does  it  take  to  know  it  then  ? " 
"  About  a  lifetime,  and  even  then  some  of 
the  streets  puzzle  you."  "  How  much  has 
the  head  of  a  ward  to  know  ?  "  "  Every  house 
in  his  ward  if  he  can,  who  owns  it,  what 
sort  of  character  the  inhabitants  are,  who  are 
their  friends,  who  go  out  and  in,  who  loaf 
about  the  place  at  night,  and  so  on  and  so 
on."  "  And  he  knows  all  this  by  night  as 
well  as  by  day  ?"  "Of  course.  Why  shouldn't 
he  ? "  "  No  reason  in  the  world.  Only  it's 
pitchy  black  just  now,  and  I'd  like  to  see 
where  this  alley  is  going  to  end. "  "Round 
the  corner  beyond  that  dead  wall.  There's  a 
lamp  there.  Then  you'll  be  able  to  see." 
A  shadow  flits  out  of  a  gully  and  disappears. 
"  Who's  that  ?  "  "  Sergeant  of  Police  just  to 
see  where  we're  going  in  case  of  accidents." 
Another  shadow  staggers  into  the  darkness, 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     57 

"Who's  that?"  "Man  from  the  fort  or  a 
sailor  from  the  ships.  I  couldn't  quite  see." 
The  Police  open  a  shut  door  in  a  high  wall, 
and  stumble  unceremoniously  among  a  gang 
of  women  cooking  their  food.  The  floor  is  of 
beaten  earth,  the  steps  that  lead  into  the 
upper  stories  are  unspeakably  grimmy,  and 
the  heat  is  the  heat  of  April.  The  women 
rise  hastily,  and  the  light  of  the  bull's  eye — 
for  the  Police  have  now  lighted  a  lantern  in 
regular  "  rounds  of  London  ''  fashion — shows 
six  bleared  faces — one  a  half  native  half 
Chinese  one,  and  the  others  Bengali.  "  There 
are  no  men  here  !  "  they  cry.  "  The  house  is 
empty."  Then  they  grin  and  jabber  and 
chew/tf#  and  spit,  and  hurry  up  the  steps 
into  the  darkness.  A  range  of  three  big 
rooms  has  been  knocked  into  one  here,  and 
there  is  some  sort  of  arrangement  of  mats. 
But  an  average  country-bred  is  more  sumptu- 
ously accommodated  in  an  Englishman's 
stable.  A  home  horse  would  snort  at  the 
accommodation. 

"  Nice  sort  of  place,  isn't  it  ? "  says  the 
Police,  genially.  "  This  is  where  the  sailors 
get  robbed  and  drunk."  "  They  must  be  blind 
drunk  before  they  come."  "  Na — Na !  Na 
sailor  men  ee — yah  ! "  chorus  the  women, 
catching  at  the  one  word  they  understand. 
"  Arl  gone  !  "  The  Police  take  no  notice,  but 
tramp  down  the  big  room  with  the  mat  loose- 
boxes.  A  woman  is  shivering  in  one  of  these. 
"What's  the  matter?"  '"Fever.  Seek. 


58     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

Vary,  vary  seek."  She  huddles  herself  into  a 
heap  on  the  charpoy  and  groans. 

A  tiny,  pitch-black  closet  opens  out  of  the 
long  room,  and  into  this  the  police  plunge. 
"Hullo  !  What's  here  ?"  Down  flashes  the 
lantern,  and  a  white  hand  with  black  nails 
comes  out  of  the  gloom.  Somebody  is  asleep 
or  drunk  in  the  cot.  The  ring  of  lantern  light 
travels  slowly  up  and  down  the  body.  "  A 
sailor  from  the  ships.  He's  got  his  dungarees 
on.  He'll  be  robbed  before  the  morning  most 
likely."  The  man  is  sleeping  like  a  little  child, 
both  arms  thrown  over  his  head,  and  he  is 
not  unhandsome.  He  is  shoeless,  and  there 
are  huge  holes  in  his  stockings.  He  is  a  pure- 
blooded  white,  and  carries  the  flush  of  inno- 
cent sleep  on  his  cheeks. 

The  light  is  turned  off,  and  the  Police 
depart;  while  the  woman  in  the  loose-box 
shivers,  and  moans  that  she  is  "  seek :  vary, 
vary  seek."  It  is  not  surprising. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

DEEPER   AND   DEEPER   STILL. 

I  built  myself  a  lordly  pleasure-house, 
Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell ; 

I  said:  O  Soul,  make  merry  and  carouse. 
Dear  Soul — for  all  is  well'." 

—  The  Palace  of  Art. 

"  AND  where  next  ?     I  don't  like  Colootol- 
lah."     The  Police  and  their  charge  are  stand- 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     59 

ing  in  the  interminable  waste  of  houses  under 
the  starlight.  "To  the  lowest  sink  of  all," 
says  the  Police  after  the  manner  of  Virgil 
when  he  took  the  Italian  with  the  indigestion 
to  look  at  the  frozen  sinners.  "  And  where's 
that?"  "Somewhere  about  here;  but  you 
wouldn't  know  if  you  were  told."  They  lead 
and  they  lead  and  they  lead,  and  they  cease 
not  from  leading  till  they  come  to  the  last 
circle  of  the  Inferno — a  long,  long,  winding, 
quiet  road.  "  There  you  are  ;  you  can  see  for 
yourself." 

But  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen.  On  one 
side  are  houses — gaunt  and  dark,  naked  and 
devoid  of  furniture;  on  the  other,  low,  mean 
stalls,  lighted,  and  with  shamelessly  open 
doors,  wherein  women  stand  and  lounge,  and 
mutter  and  whisper  one  to  another.  There  is 
a  hush  here  or  at  least  the  busy  silence  of  an 
officer  of  counting-house  in  working  hours. 
One  look  down  the  street  is  sufficient.  Lead 
on,  gentlemen  of  the  Calcutta  Police.  Let  us 
escape  from  the  lines  of  open  doors,  the  flaring 
lamps  within,  the  glimpses  of  the  tawdry  toilet- 
tables  adorned  with  little  plaster  dogs,  glass 
balls  from  Christmas-trees,  and — for  religion 
must  not  be  despised  though  women  be  fallen 
— pictures  of  the  saints  and  statuettes  of  the 
Virgin.  The  street  is  a  long  one,  and  other 
streets,  full  of  the  same  pitiful  wares,  branch 
off  from  it. 

"  Why  are  they  so  quiet  ?  Why  don't  they 
make  a  row  and  sing  and  shout,  and  so  on  ? " 


60     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

"Why  should  they,  poor  devils?"  say  the 
Police,  and  fall  to  telling  tales  of  horror,  of 
women  decoyed  \n\.o palkis  and  shot  into  this 
trap.  Then  other  tales  that-  shatter  one's 
belief  in  all  things  and  folk  of  good  repute. 
u  How  can  you  Police  have  faith  in  hu- 
manity ? " 

"That's  because  you're  seeing  it  all  in  a 
lump  for  the  first  time,  and  it's  not  nice  that 
way.  Makes  a  man  jump  rather,  doesn't  it? 
But,  recollect,  you've  asked  for  the  worst  places, 
and  you  can't  complain."  "Who's  complaining? 
Bring  on  your  atrocities.  Isn't  that  a  European 

woman  at  that  door?  "    "Yes.      Mrs  D. , 

widow  of  a  soldier,  mother  of  seven  children." 
**  Nine,  if  you  please,  and  good-evening  to 

you,"  shrills  Mrs.  D ,  leaning  against  the 

door-post  her  arms  folded  on  her  bosom.  She 
is  a  rather  pretty,  slightly-made  Eurasian,  and 
whatever  shame  she  may  have  owned  she  has 
long  since  cast  behind  her.  A  shapeless 
Burmo-native  trot,  with  high  cheek-bones  and 
mouth  like  a  shark,  calls  Mrs.  D "  Mem- 
Sahib."  The  word  jars  unspeakably.  Her 
life  is  a  matter  between  herself  and  her 
Maker,  but  in  that  she — the  widow  of  a  soldier 
of  the  Queen — has  stooped  to  this  common 
foulness  in  the  face  of  the  city,  she  has  offend- 
ed against  the  white  race.  The  Police  fail  to 
fall  in  with  this  righteous  indignation.  More. 
They  laugh  at  it  out  of  the  wealth  of  their  un- 
holy knowledge.  "  You're  from  up-country, 
and  of  course  you  don't  understand.  There 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     61 

are  any  amount  of  that  lot  in  the  city."  Then 
the  secret  of  the  insolence  of  Calcutta  is  made 
plain.  Small  wonder  the  natives  fail  to  re- 
spect the  Sahib,  seeing  what  they  see  and 
knowing  what  they  know.  In  the  good  old 
days,  the  honorable  the  directors  deported 
him  or  her  who  misbehaved  grossly,  and  the 
white  man  preserved  his  izzat.  He  may  have 
been  a  ruffian,  but  he  was  a  ruffian  on  a  larger 
scale.  He  did  not  sink  in  the  presence  of  the 
people.  The  natives  are  quite  right  to  take 
the  wall  of  the  Sahib  who  has  been  at  great 
pains  to  prove  that  he  is  of  the  same  flesh  and 
blood. 

All  this   time   Mrs.   D stands  on  the 

threshold  of  her  room  and  looks  upon  the  men 
with  unabashed  eyes.  If  the  spirit  of  that 
English  soldier,  who  married  her  long  ago  by 
the  forms  of  the  English  Church,  be  now  flit- 
ting bat-wise  above  the  roofs,  how  singularly 

pleased  and  proud  it  must  be  !     Mrs.  D 

is  a  lady  with  a  story.  She  is  not  averse  to 
telling  it.  "  What  was — ahem — the  case  in 
which  you  were — er — hmn — concerned,  Mrs. 
D ?"  "They  said  I'd  poisoned  my  hus- 
band by  putting  something  into  his  drinking 
water."  This  is  interesting.  How  much 
modesty  has  this  creature  ?  Let  us  see. 
"  And— ah— did  you  ?  "  "  'Twasn't  proved," 

says  Mrs.    D with   a   laugh,   a  pleasant, 

lady-like  laugh  that  does  infinite  credit  to  her 
education  and  upbringing.  Worthy  Mrs. 
D !  It  would  pay  a  novelist — a  French 


62     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

one  let  us  say — to  pick  you  out  of  the  stews 
and  make  you  talk. 

The  Police  move  forward,  into  a  region  of 

Mrs.  D 's.  This  is  horrible  ;  but  they 

are  used  to  it,  and  evidently  consider  indig- 
nation affectation.  Everywhere  are  the  empty 
houses,  and  the  babbling  women  in  print 
gowns.  The  clocks  in  the  city  are  close  upon 
midnight,  but  the  Police  show  no  signs  of 
stopping.  They  plunge  hither  and  thither 
like  wreckers  into  the  surf  ;  and  each  plunge 
brings  up  a  sample  of  misery,  filth  and  woe. 

"  Sheikh  Babu  was  murdered  just  here,'* 
they  say,  pulling  up  in  one  of  the  most  trouble- 
some houses  in  the  ward.  It  would  never  do 
to  appear  ignorant  of  the  murder  of  Sheikh 
Babu.  "  I  only  wonder  that  more  aren't 
killed."  The  houses  with  their  breakneck 
staircases,  their  hundred  corners,  low  roofs, 
hidden  courtyards  and  winding  passages,  seem 
specially  built  for  crime  of  every  kind.  A 
woman — Eurasian — rises  to  a  sitting  position 
on  a  board-charpoy  and  blinks  sleepily  at  the 
Police.  Then  she  throws  herself  down  with 
a  grunt.  "  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 
"  I  live  in  Markiss  Lane  and  " — this  with  in- 
tense gravity — "I'm  so  drunk."  She  has  a 
rather  striking  gipsy-like  face,  but  her  lan- 
guage might  be  improved. 

"  Come  along,"  say  the  Police,  "  we'll  head 
back  to  Bentinck  Street,  and  put  you  on  the 
road  to  the  Great  Eastern."  They  walk  long 
and  steadily,  and  the  talk  falls  on  gambling 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     63 

hells.  "  You  ought  to  see  our  men  rush  one 
of  'em.  They  like  the  work — natives  of 
course.  When  we've  marked  a  hell  down,  we 
post  men  at  the  entrances  and  carry  it.  Some- 
times the  Chinese  bite,  but  as  a  rule  they 
fight  fair.  It's  a  pity  we  hadn't  a  hell  to  show 
you.  Let's  go  in  here — there  may  be  some- 
thing forward. "  "  Here  "  appears  to  be  in 
the  heart  of  a  Chinese  quarter,  for  the  pig- 
tails— do  they  ever  go  to  bed  ? — are  scuttling 
about  the  streets.  "  Never  go  into  a  Chinese 
place  alone,"  say  the  Police,  and  swung  open 
a  postern  gate  in  a  strong,  green  door.  Two 
Chinamen  appear. 

'*  What  are  we  going  to  see  ?  "  "  Japanese 
gir —  No,  we  aren't  by  Jove !  Catch  that 
Chinaman  quick"  The  pigtail  is  trying  to 
double  back  across  a  courtyard  into  an  inner 
chamber;  but  a  large  hand  on  his  shoulder 
spins  him  round  and  puts  him  in  rear  of  the 
line  of  advancing  Englishmen,  who  are,  be  it 
observed,  making  a  fair  amount  of  noise  with 
their  boots.  A  second  door  is  thrown  open, 
and  the  visitors  advance  into  a  large,  square 
room  blazing  with  gas.  Here  thirteen  pig- 
tails, deaf  and  blind  to  the  outer  world,  are 
bending  over  a  table.  The  captured  China- 
man dodges  uneasily  in  the  rear  of  the  pro- 
cession. Five — ten — fifteen  seconds  pass,  the 
Englishmen  standing  in  the  full  light  less 
than  three  paces  from  the  absorbed  gang  who 
see  nothing.  Then  burly  Superintendent 
Lamb  brings  down  his  hand  on  his  thigh  with  a 


64     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

crack  like  a  pistol-shot  and  shouts  :  "  How  do, 
John  !  "  Follows  a  frantic  rush  of  scared  Celes- 
tials, almost  tumbling  over  each  other  in  their 
anxiety  to  get  clear.  Gudgeon  before  the  rush 
of  the  pike  are  nothing  to  John  Chinaman 
detected  in  the  act  of  gambling.  One  pigtail 
scoops  up  a  pile  of  copper  money,  another  a 
chinaware  soup-bowl  and  only  a  little  mound 
of  accusing  cowries  remains  on  the  white  mat- 
ting that  covers  the  table.  In  less  than  half 
a  minute  two  facts  are  forcibly  brought  home 
to  the  visitor.  First,  that  a  pigtail  is  largely 
composed  of  silk,  and  rasps  the  palm  of  the 
hand  as  it  slides  through  ;  and  secondly,  that 
the  forearm  of  a  Chinaman  is  surprisingly 
muscular  and  well-developed.  "  What's  going 
to  be  done?"  "Nothing.  They're  only  three 
of  us,  and  all  the  ringleaders  would  get  away. 
Look  at  the  doors.  We've  got  'em  safe  any 
time  we  want  to  catch  'em,  if  this  little  visit 
doesn't  make  'em  shift  their  quarters.  Hi ! 
John.  No  pidgin  to-night.  Show  how  you 
makee  play.  That  fat  youngster  there  is  our 
informer." 

Half  the  pigtails  have  fled  into  the  dark- 
ness, but  the  remainder,  assured  and  trebly 
assured  that  the  Police  really  mean  "no 
pidgin,"  return  to  the  table  and  stand  round 
while  the  croupier  proceeds  to  manipulate  the 
cowries,  the  little  curved  slip  of  bamboo  and 
the  soup-bowl.  They  never  gamble,  these  in- 
nocents. They  only  come  to  look  on,  and 
smoke  opium  in  the  next  room.  Yet  as  the 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     65 

game  progresses  their  eyes  light  up,  and  one 
by  one  they  lose  in  to  deposit  their  price  on 
odd  or  even — the  number  of  the  cowries  that 
are  covered  and  left  uncovered  by  the  little 
soup-bowl.  Mythan  is  the  name  of  the 
amusement,  and,  whatever  may  be  its  de- 
merits, it  is  dean.  The  Police  look  on  while 
their  charge  plays  and  oots  a  parchment- 
skinned  horror — one  of  Swift's  Struldburgs, 
strayed  from  Laputa — of  the  enormous  sum 
of  two  annas.  The  return  of  this  wealth, 
doubled,  sets  the  loser  beating  his  forehead 
against  the  table  from  sheer  gratitude. 

"Most  immortal  game  this.  A  man  might 
drop  five  whole  rupees,  if  he  began  playing  at 
sun-down  and  kept  it  up  all  night.  Don'tj'tfw 
ever  play  whist  occasionally  ?  " 

"  Now,  we  didn't  bring  you  round  to  make 
fun  of  this  department.  A  man  can  lose  as 
much  as  ever  he  likes  and  he  can  fight  as  well, 
and  if  he  loses  all  his  money  he  steals  to  get 
more.  A  Chinaman  is  insane  about  gambling, 
and  half  his  crime  comes  from  it.  It  must  be 
kept  down."  "And  the  other  business.  Any 
sort  of  supervision  there  ?  "  "  No  ;  so  long 
as  they  keep  outside  the  penal  code.  Ask 
Dr. about  that.  It's  outside  our  depart- 
ment. Here  we  are  in  Bentinck  Street  and 
you  can  be  driven  to  the  Great  Eastern  in  a 
few  minutes.  Joss  houses  ?  Oh,  yes.  If 
you  want  more  horrors,  Superintendent  Lamb 
will  take  you  round  with  him  to-morrow  after- 
noon at  five.  Report  yourself  at  the  Bow 
5 


66     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

Bazar  Thanna  at  five  minutes  to.  Good- 
night." 

The  Police  depart,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
the  silent,  well-ordered  respectability  of  Old 
Council  House  Street,  with  the  grim  Free 
Kirk  at  the  end  of  it,  is  reached.  All  good 
Calcutta  has  gone  to  bed,  the  last  tram  has 
passed,  and  the  peace  of  the  night  is  upon  the 
world.  Would  it  be  wise  and  rational  to  climb 
the  spire  of  that  kirk,  and  shout  after  the 
fashion  of  the  great  Lion-slayer  of  Tarescon  : 
"  O  true  believers  1  Decency  is  a  fraud  and 
a  sham.  There  is  nothing  clean  or  pure  or 
wholesome  under  the  stars,  and  we  are  all 
going  to  perdition  together.  Amen  1 "  On 
second  thoughts  it  would  not ;  for  the  spire 
is  slippery,  the  night  is  hot,  and  the  Police 
have  been  specially  careful  to  warn  their 
charge  that  he  must  not  be  carried  away  by 
the  sight  of  horrors  that  cannot  be  written  or 
hinted  at. 

"  Good-morning,'*  says  the  Policeman, 
tramping  the  pavement  in  front  of  the  Great 
Eastern,  and  he  nods  his  head  pleasantly  to 
show  that  he  is  the  representative  of  Law  and 
Peace  and  that  the  city  of  Calcutta  is  safe 
from  itself  for  the  present, 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     67 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

CONCERNING   LUCIA. 

*  Was  a  woman  such  a  woman— cheeks  so  round  and 

lips  so  red  ? 
On  the  neck  the  small  head  buoyant  like  the  bell  flower 

in  its  bed." 

TIME  must  be  filled  in  somehow  till  five 
this  afternoon,  when  Superintendent  Lamb 
will  reveal  more  horrors.  Why  not,  the  trams 
aiding,  go  to  the  Old  Park  Street  Cemetery  ? 
It  is  presumption,  of  course,  because  none 
other  than  the  great  Sir  W.  W.  Hunter  once 
went  there,  and  wove  from  his  visit  certain 
fascinating  articles  for  the  Englishman;  the 
memory  of  which  lingers  even  to  this  day, 
though  they  were  written  fully  two  years  since. 

But  the  Great  Sir  W.  W.  went  in  his  Legis- 
lative Consular  brougham  and  never  in  an 
unbridled  tram-car  which  pulled  up  some 
where  in  the  middle  of  Dhurrumtollah.  "  You 
want  go  Park  Street  ?  No  trams  going  Park 
Street.  You  get  out  here."  Calcutta  tram 
conductors  are  not  polite.  Some  day  one 
of  them  will  be  hurt.  The  car  shuffles  un- 
sympathetically  down  the  street,  and  the 
evicted  is  stranded  in  Dhurrumtollah,  which 
may  be  the  Hammersmith  Highway  of  Cal- 
cutta. Providence  arranged  this  mistake,  and 
paved  the  way  to  a  Great  Discovery  now 
published  for  the  first  time.  Dhurrumtol- 


68     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

lah  is  full  of  the  People  of  India,  walking 
in  family  parties  and  groups  and  confiden- 
tial couples.  And  the  people  of  India  are 
neither  Hindu  nor  Mussulman — Jew  Ethiop, 
Gueber  nor  expatriated  British.  They  are 
the  Eurasians,  and  there  are  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  them  in  Dhurrumtollah  now. 
There  is  Papa  with  a  shining  black  hat  fit 
for  a  counsellor  of  the  Queen,  and  Mama, 
whose  silken  attire  is  tight  upon  her  portly 
figure,  and  The  Brood  made  up  of  straw- 
hatted,  olive-cheeked,  sharp-eyed  little  boys, 
and  leggy  maidens  wearing  white,  open-work 
stockings  calculated  to  show  dust.  There  are 
the  young  men  who  smoke  bad  cigars  and 
carry  themselves  lordily — such  as  have  in- 
comes. There  are  also  the  young  women 
with  the  beautiful  eyes  and  wonderful  dresses 
which  always  fit  so  badly  across  the  shoulders. 
And  they  carry  prayer-books  or  baskets,  be- 
cause they  are  either  going  to  mass  or  the 
market.  Without  doubt,  these  are  the  people 
of  India.  They  were  born  in  it,  bred  in  it,  and 
will  die  in  it.  The  Englishman  only  comes  to 
the  country,  and  the  natives  of  course  were 
there  from  the  first,  but  these  people  have 
been  made  here,  and  no  one  has  done  any- 
thing for  them  except  talk  and  write  about 
them.  Yet  they  belong,  some  of  them,  to  old 
and  honorable  families,  hold  "houses,  mes- 
suages, and  tenements  "  in  Sealdah,  and  are 
rich,  a  few  of  them.  They  all  look  prosper- 
ous and  contented,  and  they  chatter  eternally 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     69 

in  that  curious  dialect  that  no  one  has  yet  re- 
duced to  print.  Beyond  what  little  they 
please  to  reveal  now  and  again  in  the  news- 
papers, we  know  nothing  about  their  life 
which  touches  so  intimately  the  white  on  the 
one  hand  and  the  black  on  the  other.  It 
must  b«  interesting — more  interesting  than 
the  colorless  Anglo-Indian  article  ;  but  who 
has  treated  of  it  ?  There  was  one  novel  once 
in  which  the  second  heroine  was  an  Eura- 
sienne.  She  was  a  strictly  subordinate  char- 
acter, and  came  to  a  sad  end.  The  poet  of 
the  race,  Henry  Derozio — he  of  whom  Mr. 
Thomas  Edwards  wrote  a  history — was  bitten 
with  Keats  and  Scott  and  Shelley,  and  over- 
looked in  his  search  for  material  things  that  lay 
nearest  to  him.  All  this  mass  of  humanity  in 
Dhurrumtollah  is  unexploited  and  almost  un- 
known. Wanted,  therefore,  a  writer  from 
among  the  Eurasians,  who  shall  write  so  that 
men  shall  be  pleased  to  read  a  story  of 
Eurasian  life ;  then  outsiders  will  be  interested 
in  the  People  of  India,  and  will  admit  that  the 
race  has  possibilities. 

A  futile  attempt  to  get  to  Park  Street  from 
Dhurrumtollah  ends  in  the  market — the  Hogg 
Market  men  call  it.  Perhaps  a  knight  of  that 
name  built  it.  It  is  not  one-half  as  pretty  as 
the  Crawford  Market,  in  Bombay  but  ...  it 
appears  to  be  the  trysting-place  of  Young 
Calcutta.  The  natural  inclination  of  youth  is 
to  lie  abed  late,  and  to  let  the  senior  do  all 
the  hard  work.  Why,  therefore,  should  Pyr- 


70     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

amus  who  has  to  be  ruling  account  forms  at 
ten,  and  Thisbe,  who  cannot  be  interested  in 
the  price  of  second  quality  beef,  wander,  in 
studiously  correct  raiment,  round  and  about 
the  stalls  before  the  sun  is  well  clear  of  the 
earth  ?  Pyrarrius  carries  a  walking  stick  with 
imitation  silver  straps  upon  it,  and  there  are 
cloth  tops  to  his  boots ;  but  his  collar  has 
been  two  days  worn.  Thisbe  crowns  her 
dark  head  with  a  blue  velvet  Tam-o'-Shanter; 
but  one  of  her  boots  lacks  a  button,  and  there 
is  a  tear  in  the  left  hand  glove.  Mama,  who 
despises  gloves,  is  rapidly  rilling  a  shallow  bas- 
ket, that  the  coolie-boy  carries,  with  vegeta- 
bles, potatoes,  purple  brinj-als,  and — Oh,  Pyr- 
amus !  Do  you  ever  kiss  Thisbe  when 
Mama  is  not  near  ? — garlic — yea.  lusson  of 
the  bazar.  Mama  is  generous  in  her  views 
on  garlic.  Pyramus  comes  round  the  corner 
of  the  stall  looking  for  nobody  in  particular — 
not  he — and  is  elaborately  polite  to  Mama. 
Somehow,  he  and  Thisbe  drift  off  together, 
and  Mama,  very  portly  and  very  voluble,  is 
left  to  chaffer  and  sort  and  select  alone.  In 
the  name  of  the  Sacred  Unities  do  not,  young 
people,  retire  to  the  meat-stalls  to  exchange 
confidences  !  Come  up  to  this  end,  where  the 
roses  are  arriving  in  great  flat  baskets,  where 
the  air  is  heavy  with  the  fragrance  of  flowers, 
and  the  young  buds  and  greenery  are  littering 
all  the  floor.  They  won't — they  prefer  talking 
by  the  dead,  unromantic  muttons,  where  there 
are  not  so  many  buyers.  How  they  babble ! 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     71 

There  must  have  been  a  quarrel  to  make  up. 
Thisbe  shakes  the  blue  velvet  Tam-o'-Shanter 
and  says  :  "  O  yess  !  "  scornfully.  Pyramus 
answers:  "  No-a,  no-a.  Do-ant  say  thatt." 
Mama's  basket  is  full  and  she  picks  up 
Thisbe  hastily.  Pyramus  departs.  He  never 
came  here  to  do  any  marketing.  He  came 
to  meet  Thisbe,  who  in  ten  years  will  own  a 
figure  very  much  like  Mama's.  May  their 
way  be  smooth  before  them,  and  after  honest 
service  of  the  Government,  may  Pyramus  re- 
tire on  Rs.  250  per  mensen,  into  a  nice  little 
house  somewhere  in  Monghyr  or  Chunar. 

From  love  by  natural  sequence  to  death. 
Where  is  the  Park  Street  Cemetery?  A 
hundred  gharri-wans  leap  from  their  Boxes 
and  invade  the  market,  and  after  a  short 
struggle  one  of  them  uncarts  his  capture 
in  a  burial-ground — a  ghastly  new  place} 
close  to  a  tramway.  This  is  not  what  is 
wanted.  The  living  dead  are  here — the  people 
whose  names  are  not  yet  altogether  perished 
and  whose  tombstones  are  tended.  "  Where 
are  the  old  dead?"  "Nobody  goes  there," 
says  the  gharri-wan.  "  It  is  up  that  road." 
He  points  up  a  long  and  utterly  deserted 
thoroughfare,  running  between  high  walls. 
This  is  the  place,  and  the  entrance  to  it,  with 
its  mallee  waiting  with  one  brown,  battered 
rose,  its  grilled  door  and  its  professional 
notices,  bears  a  hideous  likeness  to  the  en- 
trance of  Simla  churchyard.  But,  once  inside, 
the  sightseer  stands  in  the  heart  of  utter  des- 


72     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

elation — all  the  more  forlorn  for  being  swept 
up.  Lower  Park  Street  cuts  a  great  graveyard 
in  two.  The  guide-books  will  tell  you  when 
the  place  was  opened  and  when  it  was  closed. 
The  eye  is  ready  to  swear  that  it  is  as  old  as 
Herculaneum  and  Pompeii.  The  tombs  are 
small  houses.  It  is  as  though  we  walked 
down  the  streets  of  a  town,  so  tall  are  they 
and  so  closely  do  they  stand  —  a  town 
shriveled  by  fire,  and  scarred  by  frost  and 
siege.  They  must  have  been  afraid  of  their 
friends  rising  up  before  the  due  time  that 
they  weighted  them  with  such  cruel  mounds 
of  masonry.  Strong  man,  weak  woman,  or 
somebody's  "  infant  son  aged  fifteen  months  " 
— it  is  all  the  same.  For  each  the  squat 
obelisk,  the  defaced  classic  temple,  the  cel- 
laret of  chunam,  or  the  candlestick  of  brick- 
work— the  heavy  slab,  the  rust-eaten  railings, 
the  whopper-jawed  cherubs  and  the  apoplectic 
angels.  Men  were  rich  in  those  days  and 
could  afford  to  put  a  hundred  cubic  feet  of 
masonry  into  the  grave  of  even  so  humble  a 
person  as  "Jno.  Clements,  Captain  of  the 
Country  Service,  1820."  When  the  "  dearly 
beloved  "  had  held  rank  answering-  to  that  of 
Commissioner,  the  efforts  are  still  more  sump- 
tuous and  the  verse  .  .  .  Well,  the  following 
speaks  for  itself : 

"  Soft  on  thy  tomb  shall  fond  Remembrance  shed 

The  warm  yet  unavailing  tear, 
And  purple  flowers  that  deck  the  honored  dead 
Shall  strew  the  loved  and  honored  bier." 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     73 

Failure  to  comply  with  the  contract  does  not, 
let  us  hope,  entail  to  forfeiture  of  the  earnest- 
money  ;  or  the  honored  dead  might  be  grieved. 
The  slab  is  out  of  his  tomb,  and  leans  foolishly 
against  it ;  the  railings  are  rotted,  and  there 
are  no  more  lasting  ornaments  than  blisters 
and  stains,  which  are  the  work  of  the  weather, 
and  not  the  result  of  the  "  warm  yet  unavail- 
ing tear."  The  eyes  that  promised  to  shed 
them  have  been  closed  any  time  these  seventy 
years. 

Let  us  go  about  and  moralize  cheaply  on 
the  tombstones,  trailing  the  robe  of  pious  re- 
flection up  and  down  the  pathways  of  the 
grave.  Here  is  a  big  and  stately  tomb  sacred 
to  "Lucia,"  who  died  in  1776  A.  D.,  aged  23. 
Here  also  be  verses  which  an  irreverent 
thumb  can  bring  to  light.  Thus  they  wrote, 
when  their  hearts  were  heavy  in  them,  one 
hundred  and  sixteen  years  ago : 

"  What  needs  the  emblem,  what  the  plaintive  strain, 
What  all  the  arts  that  sculpture  e'er  expressed. 
To  tell  the  treasure  that  these  walls  contain  ? 
Let  those  declare  it  most  who  knew  her  best. 

The  tender  pity  she  would  oft  display 

Shall  be  with  interest  at  her  shrine  returned, 

Connubial  love,  connubial  tears  repay, 

And  Lucia  loved  shall  still  be  Lucia  mourned 

Though  closed  the  lips,  though  stopped  the  tuneful 
breath, 

The  silent,  clay-cold  monitress  shall  teach- 
In  all  the  alarming  eloquence  of  death 

With  double  pathos  to  the  heart  shall  preach. 


74     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

Shall  teach  the  virtuous  maid,  the  faithful  wife, 
If  young  and  fair,  that  young  and  fair  was  she, 

Then  close  the  useful  lesson  of  her  life, 

And  tell  them  what  she  is,  they  soon  must  be.** 

That  goes  well,  even  after  all  these  years, 
does  it  not  ?  and  seems  to  bring  Lucia  very 
near,  in  spite  of  what  the  later  generation  is 
pleased  to  call  the  stiltedness  of  the  old-time 
verse. 

Who  will  declare  the  merits  of  Lucia— dead 
in  her  spring  before  there  was  even  a  Hickefs 
Gazette  to  chronicle  the  amusements  of  Cal- 
cutta, and  publish,  with  scurrilous  asterisks, 
the  liaisons  of  heads  of  departments?  What 
pot-bellied  East  Indiaman  brought  the  "virtu- 
ous maid  "  up  the  river,  and  did  Lucia  "  make 
her  bargain,"  as  the  cant  of  those  times  went, 
on  the  first,  second,  or  third  day  after  her 
arrival  ?  Or  did  she,  with  the  others  of  the 
batch,  give  a  spinsters'  ball  as  a  last  trial — 
following  the  custom  of  the  country?  No. 
She  was  a  fair  Kentish  maiden,  sent  out,  at  a 
cost  of  five  hundred  pounds,  English  money, 
under  the  captain's  charge,  to  wed  the  man  of 
her  choice,  and  he  knew  Clive  well,  had  had 
dealings  with  Omichand,  and  talked  to  men 
who  had  lived  through  the  terrible  night  in 
the  Black  Hole.  He  was  a  rich  man,  Lucia's 
battered  tomb  proves  it,  and  he  gave  Lucia  all 
that  her  heart  could  wish.  A  green-painted 
boat  to  take  the  air  in  on  the  river  of  evenings. 
Coffree  slave-boys  who  could  play  on  the 
French  horn,  and  even  a  very  elegant,  neat 


City  of  the  Dreadful  Night     75 

coach  with  a  genteel  rutlan  roof  ornamented 
with  flowers  very  highly  finished,  ten  best 
polished  plate  glasses,  ornamented  with  a  few 
elegant  medallions  enriched  with  mother-o'- 
pearl,  that  she  might  take  her  drive  on  the 
course  as  befitted  a  factor's  wife.  All  these 
things  he  gave  her.  And  when  the  convoys 
came  up  the  river,  and  the  guns  thundered, 
and  the  servants  of  the  Honorable  the  East 
India  Company  drank  to  the  king's  health,  be 
sure  that  Lucia  before  all  the  other  ladies  in 
the  fort  had  her  choice  of  the  new  stuffs  from 
England  and  was  cordially  hated  in  conse- 
quence. Tilly  Kettle  painted  her  picture  a 
little  before  she  died,  and  the  hot-blooded 
young  writers  did  duel  with  small  swords  in 
the  fort  ditch  for  the  honor  of  piloting  her 
through  a  minuet  at  the  Calcutta  theater  or 
the  Punch  House.  But  Warren  Hastings 
danced  with  her  instead,  and  the  writers  were 
confounded — every  man  of  them.  She  was  a 
toast  far  up  the  river.  And  she  walked  in  the 
evening  on  the  bastions  of  Fort-William,  and 
said:  "La!  I  protest  1"  It  was  there  that 
she  exchanged  congratulations  with  all  her 
friends  on  the  2oth  of  October,  when  those 
who  were  alive  gather  together  to  felicitate 
themselves  on  having  come  through  another 
hot  season ;  and  the  men — even  the  sober 
factor  saw  no  wrong  here — got  most  royally 
and  Britishly  drunk  on  Madeira  that  had  twice 
rounded  the  Cape.  But  Lucia  fell  sick,  and 
the  doctor — he  who  went  home  after  seven 


76     City  of  the  Dreadful  Night 

years  with  five  lakhs  and  a  half,  and  a  corner 
of  this  vast  graveyard  to  his  account — said 
that  it  was  a  pukka  or  putrid  fever,  and  the 
system  required  strengthening.  So  they  fed 
Lucia  on  hot  curries,  and  mulled  wine  worked 
up  with  spirits  and  fortified  with  spices, 
for  nearly  a  week ;  at  the  end  of  which 
time  she  closed  her  eyes  on  the  weary,  weary 
river  and  the  fort  forever,  and  a  gallant,  with 
a  turn  for  belles  lettres,  wept  openly  as  men 
did  then  and  had  no  shame  of  it,  and  composed 
the  verses  above  set,  and  thought  himself  a 
neat  hand  at  the  pen — stap  his  vitals !  But 
the  factor  was  so  grieved  that  he  could  write 
nothing  at  all — could  only  spend  his  money — 
and  he  counted  his  wealth  by  lakhs — on  a 
sumptuous  grave.  A  little  later  on  he  took 
comfort,  and  .when  the  next  batch  came  out — 
But  this  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
the  story  of  Lucia,  the  virtuous  maid,  the 
faithful  wife.  Her  ghost  went  to  Mrs.  West- 
land's  powder  ball,  and  looked  very  beautiful 


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